Ten Plagues Descending
by who is sabrina
Summary: The Castaways discover that a curse has been placed upon their island, bringing Ten Plagues down upon them all. Disclaimer: I do not own Gilligan's Island.
1. Doomed are Ye Unfortunates

Six castaways were seated around the communal table. Cooked fish sat before them, and the smell of it filled the warm evening air. The setting sun doused the world in red.

Ginger was resting her head on one hand, and the other was tapping the table in a quick, impatient rhythm. Mary Ann was swinging her legs, feeling the warm sand between her toes. Mr. Howell was staring blankly at his watch. Mrs. Howell was studying one of the many rings encircling her fingers. She wiped at a nonexistent smudge as the Professor quietly turned a page in the book he was reading. The Skipper, fiddling with his Captain's hat, sighed loudly, and then everything was quiet.

And then, footsteps. Hurried footsteps through the jungle.

"Finally," the Skipper grumbled, not bothering to conceal his annoyance. He turned around to face the still-unseen source of the noise. "Hurry it up, Gilligan!" he called. "We're waiting for you!" The Skipper turned back around to the table once he saw the familiar flash of red and white approaching.

The sound of footsteps died away before Gilligan made it to the table. There was another noise in its place - panting. The Skipper still did not turn around, assuming Gilligan to be catching his breath. He probably had run the whole way, realizing how late he was for dinner. So the Skipper stayed facing the table. He did not turn back around until Mary Ann gasped, wide eyes staring behind him, where Gilligan was.

The castaways all followed Mary Ann's gaze. There was Gilligan - a panting, disheveled, _panicked_ Gilligan. His blue eyes were wide and filled with fear, and his clothes were covered in dirt and bits of rock, the way they always were when he came back from exploring in the caves. In his hand, he held a very old and worn piece of parchment.

"Gilligan, little buddy!" the Skipper cried concernedly, getting up and rushing over to his terrified first mate. "What happened? What's wrong?" The other castaways crowded around, too, eager to hear the answer. Gilligan, in response, held up the aged parchment with shaking hands.

"I found this," he explained breathlessly. "In the caves."

"Well, what does it say?" Mr. Howell demanded impatiently, after Gilligan seemed unwilling to continue. But Gilligan only shook his head fervently, holding the parchment out in front of him.

"Somebody else read it," he insisted. "It's the scariest thing I ever read in my life!" A beat of silence descended as the other castaways registered what Gilligan had said. Then came the sighs of relief and the little chuckles.

"Oh, Gilligan," the Skipper scolded lightly, still smiling in relief. "You had us all worried that something serious had happened! You're only freaked out because of a scary story someone wrote!"

"It's not just any scary story, Skipper," Gilligan said, refusing to be calmed down. "Somebody read it!" he insisted again. With a roll of his eyes, the Professor grabbed the parchment.

"If I read it, can we eat dinner?" he asked Gilligan. Gilligan only shrugged.

"You can, if you still have an appetite."

The Professor ignored Gilligan's ominous comment, straightened out the crinkled parchment, and read the following:

**For time too long to count, I have known what it is to suffer.**

**For years too many, I have known what it means to be alone.**

**I have known darkness.**

**I have known fear.**

**I soon will know Death.**

**This Island has brought down upon me misfortune after misfortune, tragedy after tragedy, and curse after curse.**

**And therefore, in parting, I shall curse this Island.**

**Doomed are ye Unfortunates who find yourselves in mine position - trapped upon this wretched Island. Doomed ye will be, with Ten Plagues of mine own dark design.**

**And with these Plagues, so will ye know suffering, loneliness, darkness, fear.**

**And so will ye know Death.**

**The First Plague brings a Storm, such as none before beheld.**

**Then One Unfortunate soul shall toward Danger be compelled.**

**Thirdly, ye Unfortunates shall never find the Sun,**

**And Darkness shall descend on thee, each and every one.**

**The Fourth Plague shall divide ye as the ground does fall to Hell.**

**The Fifth will force ye all to wish One Poor Soul farewell.**

**Sixth, the Sea shall not provide without some Sacrifice.**

**Then half of ye condemned to fire, half of ye to ice.**

**Eight shall be the numbered days in which Two Souls must burn.**

**And with the Ninth Plague ye must see the Awful Storm's return.**

**With Ten, ye shall be taunted by a Ghostly deadened boat,**

**And all of ye left Standing shall, by Death, be smote.**

A grim silence hung over the castaways when the Professor finished reading. The smiles had all slipped from their faces very early into the reading. Now there were frowns, scowls, worried movements, fearful eyes, and tense positions.

"Now, come on," the Professor began, breaking the unsettling silence. "None of you actually believe this silly thing, do you? I'm sure it was just some previous castaway who liked to write horror stories. It isn't possible for anyone to place a curse on an island, or the people on it." The others looked unconvinced. "Look," the Professor tried again. "All this means is that someone else was on the island before, and was shipwrecked just as we were. Possibly they found a way off the island! In fact, we should look around for more writings. Maybe they kept a journal, or some sort of record of their time here. We could use that to help us figure out how to get off this island!" The Professor was excited now, but the others still looked spooked. He decided to switch tactics. "How about dinner, then?" he said, and he sat back down at the table. The others followed suit, but the Professor was displeased to notice that most only nibbled at their food.

"I see you are all still uneasy," the Professor remarked after dinner, "but truly, these 'Ten Plagues' are simply ridiculous. Nothing of the sort will happen, you'll see. Now I suggest we all get a good night's sleep, and I'm sure we'll all feel more relaxed in the morning. Good night."

**...**

The Skipper and Gilligan were in their respective hammocks, and the moon was shining brightly in the sky, the yellow-orange light throwing strange shadows on the walls. The Skipper sighed quietly, then spoke up.

"Gilligan? You awake?"

"Yeah," came Gilligan's answering whisper. "I can't sleep. You?"

"Me neither," the Skipper admitted. A moment of silence, and then Gilligan shifted in his hammock, leaning down to look at the Skipper.

"When d'you think the first plague will happen?" The Skipper's response was a swift hat to the head.

"Don't talk like that, Gilligan!" he scolded. But it was too late. Thoughts of the alleged Ten Plagues were already running through his head, but now, after Gilligan's comment, they were firmly stuck there.

The Skipper finally felt his blearily eyes begin to droop closed some time later, and he fell to sleep with the sinister words replaying, once more, in his mind. _The First Plague brings a Storm, such as none before beheld…._


	2. A Storm, Such as None Before Beheld

"Gilligan, stop it!" the Skipper snapped, annoyed, as Gilligan looked suspiciously up at the sky for the millionth time that morning.

"I can't help it, Skipper," Gilligan pouted into his pancakes. "I'm nervous."

"Well, quit it, 'cause you're making _me_ nervous."

"_I'm_ making _you_ nervous? You were the one pacing around the hut all this morning!" Gilligan cried indignantly.

"Honestly, you two," the Professor interrupted. "I assure you there is no need to be nervous at all! We've already listened to the morning news broadcast, and there was no mention whatsoever of an oncoming storm. Besides, the sunset last night was very red, remember?"

"What's that got to do with anything?" Mr. Howell asked curiously.

"Red sky at night, sailor's delight!" Gilligan sung out happily.

"Exactly," the Professor nodded. "So none of us have any reason to be worried," he said reassuringly. The conversation died out, and the only sound for several minutes was chewing as the castaways ate their breakfast.

"You know," Ginger spoke up suddenly. "I was in a movie once where a man visited a fortune teller who told him that he was going to have bad luck. He didn't believe her, but then he had so much bad luck he almost got killed! The fortune teller saved him, though. They fell in love in the end."

"Well, that's nice, Ginger," Mary Ann commented, "but what are you trying to say?"

"Oh, I don't know," Ginger shrugged noncommittally. "I'm just saying I don't think we should be so dismissive of that curse."

"Ginger, nothing is going to happen," the Professor declared. "There is no possible way that someone can put a curse on an island; it's just impossible. I suggest we just go about our day as normal, and stop worrying about it. There is no oncoming storm."

***later***

"There is an oncoming storm," the radio announcer declared solemnly, and all eyes turned to the Professor. "Ladies and gentlemen, this storm is going to be a big one," the announcer continued gravely. "Meteorologists are scrambling to understand this incredible tropical storm which seemingly appeared out of nowhere. There were none of the usual signs of a developing storm, but nonetheless _it is here_. It is highly suggested that households make immediate preparations for severe weather. It is possible that several areas of Honolulu will soon be declared unsafe, at which time mandatory evacuations will begin. Stay tuned for a list of areas to be evacuated." The Skipper switched the radio off with a loud click. The castaways were silent. Everyone was tense. Every face was pale, and Ginger looked as if she might faint. And then it was like another switch had been clicked. Suddenly, they were up and moving, taking action.

"Gilligan, with me," the Skipper ordered, and Gilligan obeyed without a second's hesitation. "We'll get the sandbags. Mr. Howell, Professor, round up the provisions. Girls, go ahead to the cave; we'll meet up there." Everyone ran off to their respective destinations, and the communal table was left empty once again, standing alone in the sand, under the darkening sky.

***line break***

Ginger, Mary Ann, and Mrs. Howell were the only three in the cave when the first bolt of lightning struck. The earsplitting _crack_ reverberated through the cave, and the three women huddled closer together. The lightning was followed almost immediately by the sudden sound of the rain - pelting, drenching rain, as if the very oceans were being poured over the earth.

"Oh, I do wish Thurston would hurry up," Mrs. Howell exclaimed worriedly, raising her voice to be heard over the sound of the rain. "Oh, and the others too, of course," she added quickly. The other girls nodded in agreement.

"I'm just glad we happened to find this cave last week!" Mary Ann put in. "It's big enough to fit _all_ of us, _and_ supplies!"

"Oh," Ginger wailed worriedly as thunder shook the cave. "The men better get in here quick!"

Right on cue, the Professor and Mr. Howell stumbled in, soaked to the bone. Both had piles of boxes in their arms, and the Professor was kicking along a crate as he walked. The ladies rushed over and helped them stack the crates of supplies along the wall, and then Mrs. Howell enveloped Mr. Howell in a hug. Ginger and Mary Ann took turns hugging the Professor.

"But where are the Skipper and Gilligan?" Ginger asked.

"We didn't see them," the Professor replied seriously, "but we did see some sandbags near the cave entrance. Apparently, they went back for more." The cave was brightly lit for an instant, then _CRACK_! The castaways could feel the rumbling thunder in their bones.

"Oh, you two must be freezing," Mary Ann sympathized, looking at the two drenched men. "And it's getting awfully dark, besides. Can we start a fire?" The Professor crossed over to one of the supply crates, and dug around in it a bit, finally pulling out a large, cloth-wrapped bundle. He set it on the cave floor and removed the cloth, revealing dry, promising firewood.

"I wrapped it in cloth to keep it protected from the rain," the Professor explained. He reached into another crate and produced some matches. "We should definitely try to keep this fire going, but the wind is picking up speed; it might not last."

"Well, we've got to try," Mary Ann said determinedly, keeping things positive. The Professor bent down to strike the match, but just before he did so, he was knocked to the floor by a large, very wet, figure. The women screamed in fright, and backed quickly into a corner with Mr. Howell.

"Gee, I'm sorry, Professor," came a familiar voice, and there was a collective sigh of relief from the castaways in the corner. "I didn't see you and I- oof!" Gilligan was interrupted by a powerful hug from Mary Ann, nearly losing his balance again. Just then, there was a small light as the match was struck, and then the fire sprang to life, illuminating the cave. Everyone had made it - the Skipper, too. After quick greetings, they all gathered gratefully around the fire, warming themselves and huddling close.

"Oh, Gilligan, you're shivering," Mary Ann noticed worriedly, engulfing him in another hug to keep him warm.

"Yeah, I know," Gilligan responded quickly. "It's because I don't have a lot of insulation, like the Skipper does." The sound of the Skipper's hat hitting Gilligan's head was drowned out by another crash of lightning. The castaways fell silent, watching the dancing flames and keeping themselves warm. The silence was eventually broken by Mr. Howell.

"So, Professor," he began, and everyone knew what was coming next. "What were you saying about no oncoming storm?" The Professor sighed.

"I don't know how to convince you all, since you're all so intent on believing in this silly curse. But it was just coincidence. That's all," he stated firmly. But the other castaways looked unconvinced.

"Maybe _we're_ not the ones who need convincing, Professor," Ginger put in. "Maybe it's you."

"How many plagues d'you think we'll get through before the Professor believes it?" Gilligan asked the group in general.

"I'd say five," Mr. Howell announced, and he pulled a damp wad of bills out of his coat pocket. "Anyone willing to bet?" The Skipper was about to take him up on the offer when Mrs. Howell cut in.

"Oh, Thurston, dear, what about the second plague? When do you think it will hit? Now? After the storm?"

"Relax, Lovey," Mr. Howell replied, putting away his money and comforting his wife instead. "It'll all be alright."

"What is the next plague, anyway?" Mary Ann asked, her eyes wide.

"_Then One Unfortunate soul shall toward Danger be compelled_," Gilligan quoted. They all stared. "What?"

"You _memorized_ it?" the Skipper asked, bewildered.

"Not on purpose," Gilligan defended. "Am I the only one who found it difficult to forget?"

"Well, you've got a point there," Ginger consented dryly.

"Now, really, everyone," the Professor began, attempting to put some reason into the conversation. "I still don't think we have anything to worry about. This storm was just a coincidence, and if the next 'plague' happens at all, it'll be because it's a self-fulfilling prophecy."

"A what?!"

"A self-fulfilling prophecy, Gilligan," the Professor repeated. "That just means that it'll happen simply because you believe it's going to happen."

"Professor, are you saying that if we don't believe it, it's not going to happen?" Mr. Howell asked dubiously.

"Yes, Mr. Howell, that's exactly what I'm saying. I think if we all just forget about it, none of it will come to pass."

"That's gonna be a problem," Gilligan mumbled.

"Why?" the Professor asked.

"Because I believe it!" Gilligan told him, nodding emphatically.

"Me, too," the Skipper added, looking glum.

"Three," Mary Ann put in with a sigh.

"Four."

"…Five."

"Six."

"Oh dear…" the Professor sighed, shaking his head. It was going to be very difficult to convince them all. "How about we just keep our minds off of it for now?" he suggested, and the castaways fell silent once again, with only the sounds of the wind, rain, and thunder to keep them entertained. That is, until Gilligan eventually spoke up.

"How about we play a game?" The Skipper just sighed.

"No, Gilligan."

"Why not?"

"Just because."

"That's not an answer." Silence. "Let's play Truth or Dare."

"No."

"Rock, paper, scissors?"

"No."

"Tic-tac-toe?"

"We're not playing any games, Gilligan!"

***later***

"Scissors cut paper! I win!" Mr. Howell gloated, satisfied. "You can add those mangoes to your tab," he added cockily as the Skipper groaned loudly, his head in his hands. The other castaways were watching amusedly.

"I'll be right back," Gilligan said suddenly, standing up.

"Gilligan?"

"Yeah, Skipper?"

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Oh, well, I just wanted to check on the huts."

"Gilligan! What about the storm?"

"What storm?"

"What storm?!" The Skipper repeated incredulously. "Oh, I don't know, Gilligan, only the storm that's been going on for-" But he stopped suddenly. He listened everything was quiet. "The storm!" he exclaimed, shocked. "It stopped!" The other castaways gasped. They had been so wrapped up in their games they hadn't even noticed.

"Gilligan," Mary Ann scolded lightly. "How long has it been stopped?"

"Oh, a while," Gilligan replied. "I was going to tell you, but I thought someone would notice, and I didn't want to interrupt the game, so I…" he trailed off at the looks he was receiving. "Heh… oops."

"'Oops' is right, Gilligan!" the Skipper roared, and the two of them led the way out of the cave, Gilligan being chased by the Skipper and his hat.

But as soon as they exited the caves, the chasing stopped. The hat went back on the Captain's head, and all the previous amusement vanished. The castaways simply stared. It was truly the worst storm they had every experienced. So many trees were down, debris lay everywhere - the whole island looked like a war zone.

"Heavens to Cashmere!" Mr. Howell exclaimed.

***line break***

As they had expected, their huts were down. Thankfully, the walls were mostly in tact, and they managed to put them back together with relative ease. Their belongings, however, were a different story. When the huts had fallen, many of their belongings had been blown about in the wind, scattered in every direction. So for the next couple of hours, the castaways wandered around the island, collecting lost items, finding Ginger's perfume, next to Mrs. Howell's engagement ring, next to the Professor's chemistry textbook.

By the end of the day, the castaways were all back in their respective huts with their own belongings, pleased but exhausted, and all thoughts of the grisly Ten Plagues were gone from their minds.

But here's a question: If a curse is placed on an Island, but nobody on the Island thinks about it, does it still come to fruition?

_Then One Unfortunate soul shall toward Danger be compelled…_

**(A/N: This chapter was more humorous than suspenseful, but there is always a calm before a storm…)**


	3. Shall Toward Danger Be Compelled

Mary Ann turned over in her bed for probably the fiftieth time that night. Despite the day's stress of the terrible storm, and the immense amount of work they all put in to get the huts back together by nightfall, Mary Ann simply could not sleep. She was exhausted, yes. But she couldn't sleep a wink.

Giving it up as hopeless, she decided to try going out for a bit. Maybe if she went to get a drink of water or something, she'd be able to sleep when she got back. She doubted it would work, but, turning over yet again, she figured she'd at least give it a shot.

Very slowly, she pulled back the covers and stood. Then she crept outside carefully, being as quiet as she could; no sense in waking Ginger up, too. She swung the hut door shut silently and walked out into the night, relishing the feel of the cool night air, and the sounds of the ocean waves lapping gently at the shore. And the moon was perfectly gorgeous, a friendly yellow light, reflecting off the ocean and illuminating the island in faint, ethereal moonlight. She walked to the communal table and sat down on one of the benches, frowning a bit as it tilted precariously beneath her. They had put it back together in such a hurry earlier; they would have to fix it up before breakfast tomorrow.

She was checking the sturdiness of the table itself when she saw it. A dark shape, moving in the shadows near the hut belonging to the Skipper and Gilligan. Her heart skipped a beat, and a million thoughts raced through her head. Should she go investigate? But in scary movies, the ones who went to investigate always, _always_ got killed. But then again, as all the castaways had told Ginger more than once, this was real life, not the movies. As she was debating, the figure continued to move, slowly getting further away from her. It moved out from the shadows and into the moonlight for the briefest of moments, but that was enough. She sighed in immense relief. She would recognize that figure anywhere. It was Gilligan.

But what was Gilligan doing up? Had he not been able to sleep, like her? But the more important question, she realized, was: where was he going? A vaguely uneasy feeling settled in the pit of her stomach as she watched him go. She didn't know what it was, but something seemed a bit… off. As he turned a corner and vanished from view behind a clump of trees, she made up her mind. She followed him.

She followed him for what seemed like ages. The uneasy feeling was intensified tenfold every step she took. She had no idea where he was going. And then suddenly, they broke out of the jungle. They were standing on the cliff overlooking the ocean. The cliff with notoriously crumbly edges. The cliff with rocks like giant daggers waiting at the bottom. The cliff with the longest drop.

And Gilligan was still walking. Slowly, calmly, he advanced, nearer and nearer to the edge.

"Gilligan!" she tried to call, but her voice was not obeying her; she was stuck in her fear, in her horror. He was nearly at the edge now. He was going to walk straight over the edge.

And so she screamed. And she ran. And if there was only _one moment_ in her entire life in which she was not late, she prayed that it was this one.

**…..**

Gilligan awoke to a scream. A shrill, terrifying, blood-curdling scream. His eyes opened wide. His heart was going a million miles a minute. His brain, however, seemed to be going a lot slower. He couldn't process what he was seeing.

What was he seeing? It was the sky, shining with the moon's yellow light and the silvery luminescence of the stars. Did that mean he was outside? When did he go outside? He looked down, and realized that he was standing up. And then he realized _where_ he was standing. Not three inches from his toes was the rocky edge of a cliff. A _high_ cliff. The sea was rushing far below, roaring louder than he had ever heard, yelling, _screaming_, _churning_. The wind was whipping around him, whispering in his ears, chilling him to the bone. He was in shock. What was he doing here? He couldn't remember. But he had to get away. He had to move. Because the rocky edge was beginning to crumble - he could hear it, he could feel it. He was going to fall. He had to move. Move his feet. But his feet were not responding. He was panicking. His breath was coming in heaving gasps, and he couldn't move - he couldn't. He was shaking - or was that the ground? His stomach jumped into his throat and was he scared or had he started falling? He couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't breathe-

And then arms were around him. Skinny arms, warm arms, comforting, gentle arms, pulling him backwards. Away from the edge. And just like that, the world slowed down. It was normal again; it was safe again. He could breathe. He could think. He could feel. The arms still had him tight from behind, and he twisted around to find Mary Ann holding him tight. Her arms were wrapped around him like she was trying to squeeze him to death, and her hands were gripping his shirt like the world would end if she let go. Her face was buried in his chest, and he was aware of being wet; she was crying - no, sobbing - into his shirt. He lifted his arms and hugged her back, and watched curiously as a drop of water fell on her head. Had it started to rain? But no, he realized. It was him. He was crying, too. When had he started that? Oh, right. When he had nearly died. His legs were jello then, and he fell to the ground on his knees, Mary Ann with him, still holding tight.

"Mary Ann?" he asked, and his voice was shaking as much as he was. She let go finally, leaned back to take him in. He had never seen her so upset. "Uh… what happened?" he asked. And Mary Ann explained, in tears, how she had seen him leave, decided to follow him, and watched as he nearly killed himself.

"What were you thinking?!" she cried. He went to move his hand and realized she hadn't let go after all. She was still clinging to his sleeve. Her knuckles were white from the strength of her grip. She still didn't trust him.

"You're not gonna believe this, Mary Ann," he began, "but I honestly don't remember any of that. All I know is, I woke up because you screamed, and I was just… there." Mary Ann's eyes betrayed her fear and confusion, but Gilligan's conveyed his honesty, and she let go of his sleeve. Whatever had happened, Gilligan had not been aware of it. And that was terrifying.

"You mean… You weren't trying to…?" She couldn't finish the question, but she didn't have to. Gilligan was already shaking his head vigorously.

"No! No, no, no! Never," he said fervently, and she could tell he meant it.

"But then…" Mary Ann wondered, wiping at her eyes. "What happened?"

"That's what I asked you."

And then they heard the voices. The Skipper, the Professor, Ginger, the Howells - everyone was out, calling. Clearly they had all heard Mary Ann's scream, and had run out to investigate.

"Here! We're over here!" Mary Ann called loudly. There was a loud rustle of many people running through the jungle, and then they all broke through the trees, the Skipper first. They all stopped, processing the sight before them - Mary Ann and Gilligan, face to face and on their knees, just a few feet from the cliff's edge. The Skipper spoke first.

"Wh-what happened?" he asked. He and the other castaways all looked shaken.

"Well," Gilligan answered, thinking it over. "I guess I almost sleepwalked to my death."

**…..**

"Okay, let's get this straight," the Professor said, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. The castaways were all seated around the recently-reinforced communal table, still in their sleepwear. None of them had gone back to sleep since Mary Ann's heart-stopping scream, and now dawn was beginning to stretch out over the horizon. None of the castaways looked tired, though - they were all fully awake, intent on the conversation.

"Mary Ann," the Professor began. "You said you couldn't sleep, so you came out here, and you saw Gilligan. Right?" Mary Ann nodded. "You followed him, and he went to the cliff. Correct so far?" Mary Ann nodded again. "And then he just… kept walking?" Another nod. "Are you sure? He wasn't going to stop? He would've just walked right over the edge?"

"He wasn't going to stop, Professor."

"And Gilligan, you have no recollection of this whatsoever?"

"No, Professor, honest," Gilligan replied. "I remember going to bed after we finally got all our things back to our huts. And then I woke up because I heard a scream. And I was just… standing there, on the edge." He shuddered. The Skipper squeezed his shoulder comfortingly.

"And once again, Gilligan, are you _absolutely sure_ you don't have any inclination whatsoever to-"

"No, Professor!" he exclaimed, indignant. "I _really_ don't!"

"When you sleepwalk," the Professor explained, "you aren't aware what you're doing, but you still keep your moral principles. If you believe that killing is wrong, you wouldn't be able to murder someone while sleepwalking. Similarly, if you don't have a subconscious desire to commit suicide-" Several people flinched. "-you just won't do it, and that's that. So I'm afraid I really just don't understand what happened." A grim silence settled over the group.

"I do." Everyone turned, looked at Ginger. She looked scared, and she wasn't acting. "I know what happened," she said quietly. "It's the second plague. _Then One Unfortunate soul shall toward Danger be compelled. _The second plague has hit." A thrill of terror ran down everyone's spines at Ginger's ominous words.

"Now, that's just ridiculous," the Professor stated adamantly. "Gilligan, look at me," he demanded, and he had never sounded more serious. "It is _imperative_ that you listen to me, alright, Gilligan? This is _not_ because of that curse. You cannot believe that. For your own sake, Gilligan, you _cannot_ believe that." And then, to the Professor's great relief, Gilligan nodded.

"I believe you, Professor," he said. "I don't feel compelled toward danger," he frowned. "In fact, when I see danger, I'm actually compelled to go in the _opposite_ direction." The Professor nodded proudly, and a few people smiled weakly.

"Well, you all heard Gilligan," the Professor said. "It's not the curse."

"Well now that we've worked that out, can we go back to sleep?" Mr. Howell asked tiredly. Mrs. Howell stifled a yawn.

"Yes, I think that's the best idea," the Professor said. "We've been up half the night; we should all get some sleep." Gilligan laughed nervously.

"You want me to go back to sleep?" he asked doubtfully.

"Don't worry, little buddy," the Skipper told him. "You can sleep. I'll watch you and make sure you don't go anywhere. No way I'll be sleeping today."

"Gee, thanks, Skipper," Gilligan replied, sounding grateful, and the two of them trudged back over to their hut.

"Yes, goodnight everyone." Mr. Howell nodded to the remaining castaways, and he and Mrs. Howell walked back to their hut as well. The Professor bid the girls goodnight, and then left. Neither Mary Ann nor Ginger moved.

"I certainly won't be able to sleep today, either," Mary Ann said softly. "It was terrible, Ginger." Ginger pulled Mary Ann into a quick one-armed hug.

"I can't sleep, either," she told her. "So let's go out and pick some fruit for breakfast or something, okay?"

"Good idea, Ginger," Mary Ann smiled. "Let's go."

**…..**

"Gilligan?" the Skipper asked quietly. Gilligan had just gotten out of his hammock, and was walking over to the dresser beneath the window.

"Gilligan?" the Skipper repeated, louder. Gilligan still made no response, and the Skipper felt his heart skip a beat. It was happening again. He ran over to his first mate, and went pale at the sight before him.

Gilligan had already opened a drawer, and had pulled from it a small silver dagger. He was gripping it awkwardly by the blade, holding it so tight that the sides of it had cut into his hand; drops of blood were dripping slowly off the tip of the blade, onto the floor. The Skipper had never seen anything scarier - that is, he _hadn't_, until he looked at Gilligan's eyes.

His clear blue eyes were open, staring straight ahead. They had a glazed look to them, clouded over as if they had been painted upon. He was staring at the Skipper without really seeing him. The Skipper shuddered, then checked himself. Gilligan's eyes were not the problem right now. The major issue was the dagger.

Carefully, gently, the Skipper grabbed the dagger and slowly loosened it from Gilligan's viselike grip. At last, he pried it free, and threw it immediately out the window, as if it would have burned him if he held it too long. There was no reaction from Gilligan. He just stood there, unmoving, unseeing, his hand still slowly dripping blood. The Skipper looked into his first mate's eyes, and was overcome with terror. He didn't know what to do; all he knew was that he needed Gilligan back. And so he grabbed Gilligan's shoulders and shook him roughly.

"Wh-what?! What happened?!" Gilligan shouted frantically. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, swaying a little, looking pale as a sheet. The Skipper steadied him, and was inexpressibly relieved to see that his eyes were back to normal. Gilligan was looking at him - really looking at him, seeing him. His eyes moved to his now-empty hammock, and then widened in comprehension.

"Oh, no," he whispered weakly. "Oh, no, oh, no. It happened again. It happened again, didn't it, Skipper?" he asked, terrified. He looked down then, at his own outstretched hand. Two thin red lines stood out on his palm, still bloody. He looked down further, to the floor. There was red there, too.

"Skipper, what did I do?" he asked quietly, looking at his captain, and his eyes began to water. The Skipper gently put a hand on one of Gilligan's shoulders, and led him to another part of the hut. He slowly opened a basket and pulled out a long white strip of bandaging. Carefully, he wrapped his first mate's hand, and then pulled him into a hug.

"It's ok, little buddy," he said reassuringly. "You're gonna be okay," he said. Whether it was Gilligan he was trying to convince, or himself, he wasn't quite sure.

"…Skipper?" Gilligan asked hesitantly, after a moment.

"What is it, little buddy?"

"I'm scared," Gilligan admitted quietly. "Skipper… How do you protect yourself, from yourself?" His cerulean eyes met the Captain's, questioning, searching.

"You don't," the Skipper replied gently, his hands on Gilligan's shoulders. "You trust others to do it for you." Gilligan thought about this, and the Skipper was pleased to see his first mate brighten up a little.

"Okay, Skipper," Gilligan nodded, and the fear in his eyes was replaced by trust; if there was one thing Gilligan knew, it was that a sailor always trusts his captain.

**…..**

"I'll take them to the table," Mary Ann offered, switching her bucket of berries to one hand, and taking Ginger's bucket with the other. "You can go ahead and wash up."

"Thanks, Mary Ann," Ginger smiled, and she ran off towards their hut. Mary Ann went over to the communal table, and was surprised to find that Gilligan was there.

"Hi, Gilligan," Mary Ann greeted, trying to be cheerful. She put the two buckets on the table and sat down opposite him.

"Hi, Mary Ann," Gilligan replied, trying to sound cheerful, too. But his heart wasn't in it, and he looked vaguely ill. Mary Ann was about to ask him if he was feeling ok. But then she saw his hand - wrapped in a fresh bandage, with a sinister red stain.

"Oh, Gilligan, no," she whispered, horrified. It had happened again? She wanted him to deny it, but he didn't.

"Oh, Mary Ann, yes," he replied glumly, taking his hand off the table and resting his chin there instead.

"Where's the Skipper?" she asked him.

"Talking to the Professor," Gilligan told her. She sighed, bit her lip.

"Well, I'm sure the Professor will think of something soon," she comforted. Then she dragged a bucket over, setting it in between the two of them. "Why don't you eat something?" she suggested.

"Okay," Gilligan agreed. Before either of them knew it, they were both full, and the bucket was half empty. They grinned at each other across the table.

Just then, the Professor and the Skipper came out of the former's hut. They sat down at the table, too, the Skipper absentmindedly digging into the berries as well.

"Gilligan," the Professor began solemnly. "I'm sorry, but in all honesty, I have no idea why this is happening," he admitted. But Gilligan was not paying attention; he was looking at something in the distance, behind Mary Ann, the Professor, and the Skipper. The Professor didn't turn to look, instead choosing to snap his fingers in front of Gilligan's face. "Gilligan, pay attention!"

"Oh, sorry," Gilligan apologized, looking to the Professor. "I heard you, though, Professor, and it's ok that you can't figure it out. I agree with Ginger," he stated matter-of-factly. "It was the second plague."

"What?!" cried the Professor. "I thought you said you didn't think it was the- Hang on. You said 'It _was_ the second plague'. Why 'was'? Why past tense? You think it's stopped?"

"Yeah," Gilligan nodded, going back to staring in the distance. He seemed sure of himself. The Skipper and the Professor exchanged glances.

"And what makes you say that?" the Professor asked.

"Well, the first plague was the storm. The second plague was this thing, which started _after_ the storm. So that means the next plague only begins after the previous one ends," Gilligan explained.

"Assuming this _thing_ was in fact a plague, then yes, that would make sense," the Professor conceded. "But I still don't see-" But Gilligan interrupted him.

"I know it's over because of the third plague," Gilligan stated. "The third plague would only start after the second one is over. I know the second one is over, because the third plague has started."

"What?!" from the Professor, the Skipper, and Mary Ann.

"Well, yeah," Gilligan said, nodding to a place behind the three of them. "What d'you think I've been staring at this whole time?"

The Skipper, the Professor, and Mary Ann all slowly turned around. There it was, just as Gilligan had said. A colossal cloud of black was spreading quickly through the sky, expanding with frightening speed, and seeming only to grow darker. Its dark and sinister tendrils reached forward, clawing at the sun, and the world was suddenly plunged into darkness.

_Thirdly, ye Unfortunates shall never find the Sun,_

_And Darkness shall descend on thee, each and every one._


	4. Darkness Shall Descend on Thee

"There _has_ to be some sort of logical explanation for all this," the Professor stubbornly maintained, setting the radio down on the communal table and tuning to the news station. The others looked skeptical.

"I don't know, Professor," the Skipper said doubtfully. "I've seen a lot of bad weather in my time, but I've never seen anything like this."

"I've experienced some twisters in Kansas, but I've never seen anything like this, either," Mary Ann added.

"I've got the station," the Professor said, as if he had not heard them, and turned the volume up. The castaways all leaned in, listening eagerly to the newscaster.

"-dollars of damage has been done, but thankfully, no casualties have been reported as a result of yesterday's storm. Repeat: No casualties have been reported as a result of yesterday's storm. Thankfully, Hawaii and its surrounding areas are having beautiful weather right now, a stark contrast from yesterday. The temperatures are to remain in the low seventies today, with a high of seventy-six degrees Fahrenheit. The sun is out and shining, with not a cloud in the sky - a sight I'm sure _everyone_ is appreciating."

"Not us," Mr. Howell said pointedly as the radio clicked off. They all looked up at the sky again. Indeed, the sun was nowhere to be seen; the entire sky seemed to be covered in black, as if a blanket had been thrown over the island.

"Well, we're at number three already. Believe it yet, Professor?" Ginger asked.

"No, I certainly do not," he replied firmly, and Ginger sighed. "However, we can't deny that this weird weather, whatever it is, certainly seems to be staying put."

"I don't think we need to be too worried about it, though, Professor," the Skipper put in reasonably. "It's only a bit of dark; I don't see how that could be harmful."

"Unfortunately, although darkness may not be harmful physically, it could be harmful psychologically, depending upon its duration," the Professor explained. "Excessive exposure to darkness has been known to result in depression, paranoia, and even hallucinations."

"Oh, no!" Ginger wailed. "If I lose my sanity, I'll never get back into Hollywood!" she cried. Then she became thoughtful. "Well, actually…" she muttered.

"Never mind that, Ginger," the Professor told her. "If we lose our sanity, we'll never leave this island," he declared gravely. "We've got to keep each other company, we've got to stay entertained, and we _must_ work together if we're going to get through this. Agreed?"

The castaways nodded emphatically, determined to get through the darkness together.

**…..**

The Skipper sighed as he heaved yet another bit of wood into his arms. Collecting the firewood was taking much longer than usual; not only was it dark and difficult to see, but they also needed more of it than usual, needing to keep the fires going day as well as night. Slowly, he advanced, feeling around with his one free hand in an attempt to assist his vision and reduce his stumbling. But then he stopped. It was quiet. Too quiet.

"Gilligan?" he called, realizing the sound he had been missing was the stumbling footsteps of his clumsy first mate. He waited in the darkness and the silence. Nothing. "Gilligan!" he called again, louder this time. Now that regrettably-familiar sense of worry began to nibble at his insides. "GILLIGAN!" he yelled, and then-

"AYE-AYE, SIR!" The Skipper jumped about a foot in the air, effectively dropping a few of the heavier logs on his foot, as Gilligan's voice suddenly screamed in his ear from behind him. Hopping crazily and holding his hurt foot, he whirled around to find his first mate standing there at attention, one arm looped around a bundle of firewood, and the other hand to his head in an energetic salute.

"Gilligan!" the Skipper scolded, ripping the Captain's hat from his head and smacking Gilligan with it. "Where did you go?! I told you to stay near me!"

"Gee, I'm sorry, Skipper. I saw a neat piece of firewood, so I went to go get it, and then I got distracted."

"By what?"

"…Gladys."

"Gilligan!" the Skipper sighed exasperatedly. "Here I was worrying that you got lost, when you really just ran off with a monkey!" The Skipper shook his head, stooping to pick up the logs he had dropped.

"Aw, Skipper, you were worried about me?" Gilligan asked cheerfully, grinning broadly and bending down to help the Skipper pick up his logs. As he leaned over, the logs in his own arms slipped from his grip, tumbling onto the jungle floor and creating an even bigger mess.

"Gilligan!" the Skipper shouted angrily, sending a glare Gilligan's direction - one that, in the darkness, went unseen.

"Gee, I'm sorry, Skipper!" Gilligan said again, cringing, and the two of them gathered up the wood in silent haste.

"Oh, never mind," the Skipper grumbled. "Come on, Gilligan; I think we've got enough for now. Let's head back to camp." And he turned to go, Gilligan's noisy and uncoordinated footsteps following.

**…..**

The seven castaways were gathered around a single, blazing campfire. They had been there for a while, and the conversations had long since died down. The darkness overhead was beginning to weigh on them. Everyone looked glum, and even Gilligan could feel his spirits dying down. He hopped up fluidly, with all the energy he could muster.

"Anyone want a banana?" he asked cheerily, grinning at them all. The other castaways shook their heads, not meeting his eyes, and Gilligan frowned, heading over to the nearest banana tree, stumbling a little in the dim firelight. He had often been told that he had the kind of grin that most people simply couldn't help returning. And yet none of the castaways had smiled back - not even the ghost of a smile.

Reaching up, he grabbed a promising-looking banana and walked around to the other side of the tree, leaning back against it, facing away from the campfire. He stared off into the darkened jungle, thinking. What did the Professor say again? About the effects of darkness? Depression, paranoia, insanity. He glanced back at the castaways, slumped in various positions around the campfire, gloom clearly evident on their faces. No one even attempted a conversation anymore. Gilligan gulped, turned back around, and slowly peeled his banana. Clearly, just smiling at the others simply wasn't going to do the trick. And he doubted any one of them would be in any mood to play games. There had to be something he could do, he mused, biting into the banana. Some way to keep them entertained. Some way to distract them. Some way to keep them _sane_ at the very least, if not happy.

What, he wondered, kept people sane? He thought again over what the Professor had said earlier. They needed to stay together, he had said. Now, what kept people together - kept them unified? Gilligan thought over their previous experiences on the island. What had kept them together in the past? He continued eating his banana, reminiscing.

That was it! The proverbial light bulb went off over his head. Problems! Problems kept people unified. But the only problem now was the darkness hanging over their heads, and there was nothing the castaways could do about _that_ problem. So, if there were no problems, Gilligan would just have to _make_ a problem - something, he realized a bit belatedly, he was a little _too_ good at.

With a satisfied smirk on his face, he flung his half-eaten banana into the jungle, watching it disappear. Time to put his plan into action…

**…..**

It was quiet, and it had been so for a while. Finally, the Skipper sighed heavily and leaned forward to stoke the fire. It blazed back to life, illuminating a larger area, and the Skipper turned around to look at the banana tree, vaguely thinking it incredible that his first mate could _still_ be eating bananas. How many could one person eat? But when he turned around and looked at the newly-illuminated spot, he found that Gilligan was nowhere to be seen.

"Anyone seen Gilligan?" the Skipper asked. The other castaways looked up, a few of them startled at the sudden conversation. Then five heads swiveled to the banana tree, and back again.

"Where'd he go?" the Professor asked, surprised. Everyone looked mystified.

"Gilligan!" the Skipper called loudly, looking around. He stood up, and the others followed suit.

"Gilligan!" Everyone joined in, calling, their voices growing in volume and concern. The Skipper crossed to the nearest tiki torch, and pulled it out of the ground. He stooped to dip the unlit end into the campfire, igniting it, and then stood up grimly.

"We should form a search party," the Skipper announced, inwardly grimacing at the amount of times those words had to be said on the island.

"I agree," the Professor nodded, grabbing and lighting another torch.

"Mr. and Mrs. Howell, you look that way," the Skipper directed, igniting yet another torch, and then handing it to Mr. Howell. "Professor, you take Ginger and search in that direction. Mary Ann and I will look this way. We can all take conch shells, so we can signal if we find him." The Skipper began to turn away, but was stopped by the Professor.

"Hold on a minute, Skipper," the Professor interjected. "What if Gilligan comes back to camp? We would all be out searching, and we'd miss him."

"Good point, Professor. I didn't think about that," the Skipper murmured, wringing his hands worriedly. "I guess someone should stay here. Or, better yet, two people. With it being so dark out, I don't think it's a good idea to split up." The Professor nodded his approval. "Mr. and Mrs. Howell, would you two like to stay?" the Skipper asked. Mr. Howell nodded, but Mrs. Howell, standing in front of him and unable to see his response, shook her head no. Behind her, Mr. Howell switched from nodding to shaking his head, copying his wife.

"If that dear boy is missing, I really don't think I'd be able to just sit here," Mrs. Howell said. "Isn't that right, dear?"

"Yes, of course, Lovey."

"Alright, then I must insist that you two stay behind," the Skipper said, gesturing to Ginger and Mary Ann. "The Professor and I will search one half of the island, and the Howells will search the other." Mary Ann opened her mouth to protest, but the Professor interrupted her.

"You girls should be the ones to stay," he agreed. "Besides," he added, with logic to back him up as always, "you girls are perfectly capable of taking care of Gilligan if he comes back hurt in any way." This quieted Mary Ann's protests, and she and Ginger nodded, determination flaring to life in their eyes. That decided, the four castaways set off in their respective directions, leaving the two girls behind, tense, anxious, and waiting…

**…..**

"Gilligan! Oh, Gilligan, my boy!" Mr. Howell called loudly, stumbling through the jungle, his wife at his elbow, and a torch in one hand.

"Gilligan!" Mrs. Howell joined in. "Oh, I do hope the poor boy is alright," she worried.

"I'm sure he'll be fine, Lovey," Thurston comforted, but inwardly, he was worried, too. The scrawny sailor had proved time and time again that the amount of trouble he could get into was truly _limitless_. With a long-suffering sigh, he continued on, squinting around in the wavering firelight provided by the torch. Eventually, they began to hear the sounds of water, and realized that they were approaching the lagoon.

"The lagoon!" Mrs. Howell cheered happily. "Oh, that boy loves the lagoon; I'm sure we'll find him here, Thurston!"

"I certainly hope so, Lovey," Mr. Howell replied, and with bated breath, he and his wife broke through the trees.

**…..**

The Skipper and the Professor nearly dropped their torches when they heard it.

"The conch!" they yelled together excitedly, and then they sprinted towards the sound.

"Where do you think it's coming from?" the Professor asked breathlessly as they ran. The sound came again, further pinpointing their destination.

"I think it's the lagoon!" the Skipper cried, picking up speed. It seemed like forever before he finally broke through the trees surrounding the lagoon. Seconds later, the Professor caught up, running out of the trees. He bent over, catching his breath, and then looked up to take in the scene.

Mr. and Mrs. Howell were kneeling beside Gilligan, who was sprawled, unconscious, next to the lagoon. From the way he was positioned, the Professor could tell that he had rolled down the gentle incline to the side of the lagoon. He went hurriedly to Gilligan's side. Unsurprisingly, the Skipper got there first.

"Gilligan, little buddy!" the Skipper cried. Mr. Howell moved away so that the Skipper could kneel beside his first mate. The Professor ran over and took Mrs. Howell's place, immediately looking Gilligan over for injuries.

"He's alright," the Professor reported, relieved. "He has a few small cuts and bruises from rolling down the incline, but nothing serious. No breaks or sprains." The Professor glanced up the incline, trying to see what was up there, but it was too dark. He turned back to Gilligan. "Looks like he hit his head on something," he said, pushing back Gilligan's bangs to reveal an angry red mark on his head.

"Oh, Gilligan," the Skipper sighed. "What did you do this time?" He shook his head exasperatedly, but he was smiling sightly - he was so relieved he couldn't help but grin. Carefully, he gathered his skinny little buddy into his arms, and stood up. "Let's get back to camp."

**…..**

Slowly, sluggishly, Gilligan came to. He was aware, first, of the Skipper's voice. Then he heard the Professor's, along with the voices of the Howells. Their voices were light, and he felt vaguely pleased to hear the Skipper's booming laugh, though he heard it as if from a great distance. Gradually, the laughter grew louder, until he realized that it was right next to him. Next came the sensation of movement. He was moving, gently, up and down, up and down, and he had the impression that he was moving forward as well.

He opened his eyes. As the world slid into focus, he realized that he was sideways. Turning his head, he looked around. It was dark and difficult to see, but suddenly, with a jolt, he realized that he was being held up, above the floor. It was distinctly disorienting, and he cried out in surprise.

"Whoa!" he exclaimed, frantically attempting to get his bearings. "Skipperrrr!" he called, the name always the first on his tongue when he found himself in a troublesome situation.

"Gilligan!" came the Skipper's response, part annoyed and part relieved. The motion stopped suddenly, and then Gilligan found himself set carefully on the floor. Looking up, he realized the Skipper had been carrying him. The Professor and the Howells were crowded around them. Gilligan blinked, looked around once again. They were in the jungle, in the dark. Why was it so dark? Oh. The memories came rushing back. The plagues, the darkness, his friends' gloominess, his plan… Oh, yeah! His plan!

He remembered sneaking quietly over to the Howell hut while the others remained around the campfire. Silently, he snuck inside and pinched one of Mrs. Howell's diamond bracelets, and a particularly expensive-looking watch of Mr. Howell's. He slipped the two items into his pocket, and made his way towards the lagoon. His plan was to hide the items, and then return to the group around the campfire. Eventually, the Howells would discover their items missing, and the castaways would have to work together to find them; they would be forced to unify to solve the problem, and the insidious effects of the darkness would wear off. Gilligan was brought out of this recollection as he realized the Skipper was snapping his fingers in front of his face.

"Gilligan!" he barked, and the sailor's eyes focused.

"Oh, hi, Skipper," Gilligan replied sheepishly. The others chuckled lightly, and a small grin spread across Gilligan's face, one that the other castaways couldn't help but return, despite the darkness surrounding them. This only broadened the first mate's grin. The Skipper laughed and grabbed one of Gilligan's arms, hauling him to his feet.

"You feel ok, little buddy?" he asked.

"Sure, Skipper," Gilligan smiled.

"Well, what happened?" the Skipper asked. Gilligan opened his mouth to reply, but the Professor cut him off.

"I'm sure it can wait until we get back to camp," he put in.

"Oh, you're right, Professor, of course," the Skipper responded, and he looped an arm around the still-unsteady Gilligan's shoulders, and began to lead him, once again, towards camp.

Gilligan, for his part, was grateful for the Professor's interruption. He didn't exactly want to explain to the other castaways that he had taken the Howell's stuff in order to make them work together. And that, in trying to create a problem, his innate clumsiness had kicked in on overdrive, and created an even _bigger_ problem than he'd intended. Instead of the castaways hunting for a bracelet and a watch, they had ended up hunting for Gilligan himself.

"We're here!" the Professor called out, and the castaways took the last few steps out of the jungle, entering the camp. They stopped short in surprise.

Before them, the communal table was entirely decked out. Delicious fruits and several drinks were laid out on the table in a decorative manner, and vines and flowers had been arranged in several places around the camp. About a dozen tiki torches stood blazing here and there, throwing their cheery light on the decor. Mary Ann and Ginger came towards them then, and the castaways noticed that the girls had changed; they were dressed in fancy party dresses. Both girls ran straight to Gilligan, engulfing him in a little group hug, nearly knocking him over.

"Oh, Gilligan, you're alright!" Ginger cried happily, hugging him tight. She kissed him on the cheek, and he squirmed uncomfortably.

"What happened, Gilligan?" Mary Ann asked, hugging him equally as tightly. Between the two of them, Gilligan thought he was likely to pass out from lack of oxygen. Thankfully, though, the Skipper intervened, gently pulling the two girls off of him.

"He's alright," the Skipper assured them. "Just got a little bump on the head is all." Right on cue, Gilligan, still smiling cheerfully, began to tilt to one side. The Skipper steadied him without missing a beat. "You'd better sit down, little buddy," the Skipper laughed, leading him over to the table. The others followed.

"So, girls, do you mind explaining what all this is?" the Professor asked as they all sat down, gesturing to the new elaborate decorations. Ginger and Mary Ann grinned at each other.

"Well…" Mary Ann began. "At first, when you all left, we started thinking about what you said, Professor. You know, about us being able to take care of Gilligan if he was hurt."

"So we thought we'd get prepared, just in case he _was_ hurt," Ginger continued. She pointed to a corner of the camp, in which all kinds of medical supplies had been piled up. "We gathered up everything, and got all kinds of things ready, but you guys still weren't back."

"Then we thought… what if you guys came back, and Gilligan wasn't hurt at all? We'd have done all that work for nothing."

"And then we thought that if Gilligan came back _un_hurt, we should be prepared for that, too!"

"And the best way we could think of was to have a party!" Mary Ann finished happily, and Ginger smiled proudly. The others laughed.

"Well, gee, thanks girls!" Gilligan told them, smiling happily and wasting no time in digging into the fruit. The other castaways joined in, eating and drinking merrily beneath the swirling, malevolent sky.

"So, Gilligan, now you can tell us," the Skipper said between mouthfuls. "What happened to you anyway, huh, little buddy?"

"Oh, right." Gilligan thought quickly. What was a good excuse?

"Hold on," Ginger interrupted, and Gilligan inwardly sighed in relief. She had just bought him more time to think of something. "Where did you guys find him?" Ginger continued. "Mary Ann and I don't have a clue about what happened. We only heard the conch coming from that direction," she supplied, waving her hand vaguely in the direction it had come from.

"That was where you two were searching, wasn't it, Mr. and Mrs. Howell?" Mary Ann asked.

"Yes, that's right, my dear," Mr. Howell responded.

"We found the poor boy right next to the lagoon," Mrs. Howell told them. "He was unconscious, poor dear." Mary Ann gasped and Ginger's smooth facial features were scrunched up in worry.

"So, how _did_ that happen, my boy?" Mr. Howell asked Gilligan, eager to finally hear the story.

"Well," Gilligan began. "I was eating a banana by that tree, when I saw… Gladys! Yeah, Gladys! I saw Gladys," he repeated, less excitedly, hoping it didn't sound like he was making this up as he went along, even though that was exactly what he was doing.

"You mean that monkey friend of yours?" Mary Ann asked.

"Yeah!" Gilligan nodded. "Uh, I saw Gladys, and… she took my banana. And then she ran away. So I just sort of went after her." Yeah, that was believable. "I chased her all the way to the lagoon area, but then I tripped and I guess I must've hit my head on a tree branch or something." Well, the last bit was true anyway.

"Honestly, Gilligan," the Skipper sighed. "I've never met anyone clumsier than you, and that's a fact!" The others laughed, and Gilligan laughed with them, relieved that they had accepted the story about Gladys. Only one thing left to do, and that was to return Mrs. Howell's bracelet and Mr. Howell's watch - without them noticing. He knew just how to do that. Carefully, he got up from his seat beside the Skipper and went around the table, to Mr. and Mrs. Howell.

"I just wanted to say thanks for finding me," he told them, and he hugged Mrs. Howell, stealthily slipping the bracelet around her wrist. He then turned to hug Mr. Howell, doing the same with the billionaire's watch, and then headed back over to his own seat. Neither of them had noticed their new accessories. Gilligan was smug.

"Oh, you're very welcome, dear," Mrs. Howell was saying. Mr. Howell was nodding his agreement.

Despite Gilligan's plan having gone rather wrong, he was ecstatic to see that it had nonetheless worked. The castaways had been brought together in their concern for the bumbling first mate, and the mood was so bright that it seemed as if the world around them was brightening alongside them. It took a few moments for the castaways to notice that it literally was.

"The sky!" Ginger gasped, staring upwards, and the others followed her gaze. The eerie blackness was receding, curling in on itself and dwindling away. Smaller and smaller it became, until, at last, it vanished entirely. The castaways cheered uproariously, the Howells even deigning to shout for joy.

The evening ended on the highest possible note. The Skipper, finding himself comfortably settled in his hammock, his first mate and little buddy sleeping safely and soundly above him, couldn't have felt better. The Ten Plagues had not left his mind at all, but instead of fearing them, all he felt was determination and optimism. Three plagues done and over with, and no lasting damage whatsoever. They had gotten through it together, just like that always had - just like they always will. _So come on, Fourth Plague_, the Skipper thought smugly. _See what you make of us…_

**…..**

_The Fourth Plague shall divide ye as the ground does fall to Hell…_


	5. As the Earth Does Fall to Hell

By the time the two castaways hit the ground, and the explosion rent the air with a blinding flash and an almighty roar, hell had already broken loose on the island. The explosion was simply the icing on the cake - the cherry on top.

It had really started with that earthquake.

**…..**

Gilligan, with his unending supply of horrid luck, just so happened to be in the caves when it began. _Deep_ within the caves.

He was digging around with a bamboo shovel, looking for nothing in particular, when the rumbling began. In the fraction of a second it took him to drop the shovel, the rumbling had already increased tenfold. The earth shook with more violence than Gilligan had imagined possible, and he struggled to stay on foot as he hurried to the cave entrance. Dirt and dust and piles of rock were falling all around him, but he ignored it. He ran, stumbling, his arms over his head, towards the entrance. He had to get out. He had to get out before it-

Collapsed. Mere feet from the entrance, Gilligan could only watch helplessly as the cave ceiling began to crumble. The rocks piled on top of each other, blocking the only way out, bit by bit cutting off the pale sunlight that shone in from outside. In a second, it was over, and Gilligan found himself on the ground of a cold, quiet, cave. The darkness was oppressive, and Gilligan coughed dryly as the dirt and dust slowly settled in the air. With a long-suffering sigh, he hoisted himself up and pulled a box of matches out of his pocket. He lit one, and saw by its light that the bamboo shovel he had been using minutes before was not broken. He staggered over to it, picked it up, and then crossed back to the cave entrance, staring at the impossible tonnage of rocks blocking his exit.

Gilligan straightened, fixed his dirtied sailor's hat, and then set to work, thanking his lucky stars for bamboo shovels.

**…..**

The Skipper was on the ground.

Not five minutes ago, he had been fishing peacefully, relishing the relaxing afternoon breeze, keeping a steady eye on his line, ready for a bite. But then the earthquake had happened. It had struck, with more force than the Skipper could ever remember feeling, and he had been knocked roughly to the ground, where he now lay, shocked.

He sat up carefully, relieved to find that he was in no way hurt, and then stood up. The waters of the lagoon were still rippling from the quake. None of the nearby trees had fallen over, although a couple of them were leaning precariously. The Skipper gathered up his fishing gear, and then set it down again. He would come back for it later. Right now, the important thing was to see whether the other castaways were alright. With this decided, he headed in the direction of the camp, and at that precise moment, it happened.

**…..**

**BOOM! **

The sound was terrible - horrifically loud and entirely ominous. Mr. and Mrs. Howell whipped their heads in its direction, in time to see a frightful black cloud rising slowly up into the sky.

"Heavens to Tiffany!" Mr. Howell exclaimed. "What was _that?!_"

"Why, it sounded like an explosion, Thurston! I think it came from the camp!" Mrs. Howell was pale and shaken, and Thurston wanted nothing more than to comfort her, but, given their current situation, it was rather impossible. "I-I think I'll go check it out, Thurston," Mrs. Howell told her husband. Mr. Howell nodded.

"You go ahead, dear," he said. "I'm certainly not going anywhere." Indeed, he wasn't; for between his polished shoes and his wife's expensive heels, was a wide, _wide_ rift. The earthquake had split the very island, creating a giant gap right between the two of them, too big to step or jump over.

Mr. Howell mused over the wretched curse on their island as he watched his wife disappear into the trees, heading back towards camp. The fourth plague really had divided them, and the ground, Mr. Howell thought, glancing down into the pitch black yawning abyss, really had fallen to Hell.

So much for the pleasant morning stroll he and his wife had planned.

**…..**

The Skipper was running full-on now, heading in the direction of the camp. Whatever had caused that explosion, it hadn't sounded good. And so he sprinted, hardly paying any attention to his surroundings; the state of the island didn't matter right now. What mattered right now was the wellbeing of his friends. What if one of them had been badly injured in the explosion, or the earthquake? Even worse… what if someone had been…? But the Skipper didn't even dare to think it. He ran harder, until-

_Bam!_ He slammed full-force into another running body, and the two of them crashed to the jungle floor.

"Mary Ann!" the Skipper gasped, pulling himself off the ground. "Are you alright?!" he asked concernedly, offering her a hand. She accepted it gratefully, and he pulled her to her feet.

"I'm alright, Skipper," Mary Ann told him, understanding that he was talking about the earthquake, rather than their little collision. "I was just out picking some berries when it happened. I haven't seen anyone else," she added worriedly.

"I'm afraid I haven't either, Mary Ann," the Skipper told her. "I hope everyone's alright. Did you hear that explosion?"

"You'd have to be buried under a ton of rocks to not hear _that_ explosion! What do you think caused it?"

"I don't know, but we'd better find out," the Skipper replied grimly, and with that he resumed running, Mary Ann not far behind.

The Skipper was so focused on his running, he almost didn't notice Mr. Howell, who started at the sudden emergence of the captain, and then lunged for him, shouting: "Captain, _stop!" _The Skipper skidded to a halt, and not a moment too soon; one more step, and he would've fallen down the gaping rift at his feet. As it was, his momentum teetered him toward the edge, but at that moment, Mary Ann caught up, and she and Mr. Howell grabbed the Skipper, hauling him back onto safe ground.

"Thank you, you two!" the Skipper gasped, peering down at the eerie bottomless pit - the most recent addition to their beautiful island home. "The earthquake did all _that_?" he asked breathlessly, whistling.

"Yes, I'm afraid it did," Mr. Howell replied disdainfully, glaring into the impenetrable depths.

"Oh, Mr. Howell!" Mary Ann wailed worriedly. "Where is Mrs. Howell?!"

"She's fine, my dear," Mr. Howell answered hurriedly. "We got split up by this ridiculous rift," he sniffed. "When we heard the explosion, she went over to the camp to investigate. As you can see," he added. "We're going to have a little difficulty getting over there ourselves…"

**…..**

When Mrs. Howell reached the huts, the thick black smoke had finally begun to clear away. Walking further into the camp, she was relieved to see the Professor and Ginger, both sitting at the communal table, talking animatedly. They looked terribly dirty, and a little singed, but otherwise alright.

"Professor! Ginger!" she called loudly, hurrying over to the table. Both castaways looked over immediately and stood up from the table, rushing over to meet Mrs. Howell halfway.

"Mrs. Howell!" the Professor cried. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine," she told him. "But what on earth was that horrid explosion?"

"I'm afraid that was partly my fault," the Professor said. "I should have stored my materials better. During the quake, you see, one of the more volatile compounds in my possession rolled out of my hut, straight into the fire. Thankfully, Ginger happened to be walking near my hut, and I had enough time to warn her. We were able to get down to the ground before it exploded, so as to avoid injury," he explained.

"Oh, dear!" Mrs. Howell exclaimed. "Well, it's a very good thing that neither of you were hurt. That explosion did shake things up an awful lot."

"What _really_ shook things up was that earthquake!" Ginger put in. "Why, if it had happened in a major city, it would have caused _billions_ of dollars of damage!"

"Speaking of billions of dollars," the Professor interjected, "where is Mr. Howell?"

"Thurston is fine," Mrs. Howell assured them. "But you're not going to _believe_ what happened. I shall simply have to show you," she determined, and so saying, she started off quickly towards the jungle. The Professor and Ginger exchanged glances, shrugged, and then set off after her.

**…..**

Gilligan was shoveling rocks at an incredible pace. _Skipper would be proud of me,_ he thought smugly. But thoughts of the Skipper again brought him back to thoughts of the earthquake. What if his big buddy had been hurt in it? Mary Ann? Ginger? The Professor, or the Howells? He shuddered to think about it, and shoveled even faster.

He paused a moment, trying futilely to catch his breath. He raised a sore arm to wipe his brow before resuming his vigorous shoveling once more. And then - at last - he was rewarded. The last shovelful had finally created an opening in the monstrous pile of rocks, and the sunlight shone through again. Dropping the shovel, he clambered over the pile of rocks, and stuck his head near the opening, breathing in the sweet island air in heaving, ravenous gulps. It was amazing to feel the fresh air on his face again, and he realized that it was a very good thing he had made the opening when he did; he had begun to feel lightheaded earlier, but had chalked it down to the hard work he was doing. Inhaling the sea breeze, though, he realized his real problem had been a lack of oxygen.

He lay there on the rocks for a few minutes, exhausted and utterly spent, not even caring about the uncomfortable position he was in. He could've fallen asleep right there - he almost did. But then he remembered the others. He had to get back to them, help them, make sure they were ok.

A new fire ignited in Gilligan's eyes, and the sailor lifted himself up on shaking arms. He grabbed the bamboo shovel, and continued to shovel the rocks, clearing a bigger hole, bit by tiresome bit. _At least_, Gilligan thought, ignoring the burning in his muscles and the aches in his body, _I'll be sleeping well tonight._

**…..**

"Timber!" the Skipper yelled as the palm tree came crashing down. Just as they had hoped, it was just the right size. The Skipper, Mary Ann, and Mr. Howell all cheered as the tree reached easily from one side of the rift to the next.

"Alright, Mary Ann, girls first!" The Skipper tied one end of a long vine around Mary Ann's waist, holding tightly onto the other. "Now, go ahead and walk across the fallen tree," he told her. "Be very careful, and don't lose your balance! But if you do," he added comfortingly, "you're secured to the vine, and Mr. Howell and I will be able to pull you back up."

Mary Ann nodded determinedly, and stepped up onto the tree trunk, pleased that it didn't wobble. Slowly, carefully, and with all the grace she could muster, the Kansan crossed the fallen palm tree, and stepped off lightly onto the other side of the rift. The Skipper and Mr. Howell congratulated her as she untied the vine around her waist. The Skipper pulled it back in, and then tossed one end to Mr. Howell, who tied it around his own waist. Nervously, he stepped up onto the trunk, and made his precarious way across the rift. The three castaways all sighed in relief as Mr. Howell reached solid ground once again. Now, the Skipper attached his end around his waist, and Mary Ann and Mr. Howell grabbed onto the other. The Skipper, flailing around for a few heart-stopping moments, finally made it across as well, and as the three cheered, three more castaways ran up to them.

"Oh, Thurston, darling!" Mrs. Howell cried, embracing her husband lovingly. "You made it across! Oh, how wonderful! You were very brave to do that," she told him.

"Yes, I was, wasn't I?" he smiled smugly, glowing under his wife's fond praise.

The other castaways greeted each other with much relief, and quickly exchanged stories of the earthquake and the explosion. After a few minutes of conversation, only one question remained.

"But where's Gilligan?" the Skipper asked. It was one question that no one seemed to have the answer to. The castaways all looked grim at the question, varying expressions of concern, worry, and fear on everyone's faces. Nobody said anything, until-

"Right here!" called a familiar voice, and everyone gasped in surprise, turning toward the sound. There stood Gilligan, leaning tiredly on a bamboo shovel. He was entirely covered in dirt, from head to toe; if the castaways hadn't already known, they would have had extreme difficulty in determining the original color of his clothes, particularly his battered, no-longer-white sailor's hat, which rested on his messy black hair at an odd angle, about to fall off. The slender first mate's posture left no doubt about his exhaustion, and he stumbled over to them crazily, as if drunk.

"I just hope you didn't explode my hammock, Professor," he slurred, somehow still finding the energy to grin. "Because I'm _dead tired_." His knees buckled beneath him, and the castaways sprang into action, the Skipper and the Professor grabbing him before he hit ground.

"Gilligan, my boy!" Mr. Howell exclaimed. "What in the name of J.P. Morgan happened to you?!"

"Oh, you know," Gilligan answered, gesticulating vaguely, crazy grin still firmly in place. "Just digging around."

And then, just as the words left his lips, the castaways were all shocked as _Ginger_ ran over and hugged Gilligan tightly. Gilligan, too tired to protest for once, simply let it happen, and the others watched in evident confusion and bewilderment. Finally, Ginger let go of the dirt-covered sailor, and Gilligan cringed to see Ginger's nice dress smothered in dirt. Although, he supposed, it was already ruined from the explosion, anyway. Shrugging the thought off, he peered into Ginger's face.

"Ginger… are you sick or somethin'?" he asked seriously. Ginger only glared.

"No, Gilligan," she sighed, exasperated.

"Then what was _that_ for?!" Ginger just rolled her eyes.

"The curse, Gilligan! The Plagues! Don't any of you remember the next one? _The Fifth will force ye all to wish One Poor Soul farewell!_ I thought it was you, Gilligan! I thought you were dead. You see, the fourth plague already finished; it was just an earthquake. So the next one could happen at _any moment._" The others exchanged glances at Ginger's ominous words. The Professor looked as if he was about to smack his forehead, or go bang his head against the nearest tree. But besides him, the others all looked frightened, scared. They stared at each other fearfully, as if waiting for someone to suddenly drop dead. Everyone was rigid with horrified anticipation.

That is, everyone except Gilligan.

"I'm too tired to worry about death right now," Gilligan yawned. And so saying, he pushed himself up and stumbled away, heading back unsteadily towards camp. The Professor chuckled lightly and followed after him. The others, much less cheerful, followed behind in single file, straggling along in a somber line, like a funeral procession.


	6. Wish One Poor Soul Farewell

It happened in the most unexpected of ways.

The castaways, in an attempt to keep their minds off of the dreaded fifth plague, had all gathered near the lagoon. The Skipper, the Professor, and Gilligan were all working on a tall bamboo structure - a look-out post. They were adding the finishing touches, testing the sturdiness of the structure. They seemed pleased. The other castaways stood around it, watching, waiting. Trying to forget.

"Well, I think it's all done now," the Skipper said. His voice rang with false cheer.

"Gee, that's good," Gilligan said, and the others cringed. Even Gilligan's cheer had sounded artificial.

"Why don't we try it out?" Mary Ann put in then, attempting to divert the attention off of the gloomy undercurrent in everyone's voices. Ginger smiled slightly, swallowing her comment about Mary Poppins.

"I'll try it," she announced, sashaying over to the look-out structure. She climbed onto the platform and then smoothly scaled the ladder to the top. "Can you see me?" she called to the castaways down below.

"I see you, Ginger!" Mary Ann called back, and the others called up similar responses.

"Try going further away, and see if you can still spot me!" Ginger told them. Glad for something to do, the six other castaways moved back, further and further from the lagoon, always watching Ginger. The height of the structure meant that it stuck up over the tops of the trees, and Ginger was easily spotted no matter how far they went. She stood there, glowing, her white dress stenciled with "S.S. MINNOW" in stark contrast with the graying sky behind her. Even from their distance, the castaways thought they could see her sparkling smile. She grinned at them. She winked.

That was the moment the wave came.

It was a wave like no other. In fact, it wasn't a wave so much as a _surge_ of water. The lagoon seemed suddenly to swell in a rush of angry swirling tide, and suddenly the shore disappeared beneath it. And before the castaways' very eyes, it lifted the bamboo look-out structure with the greatest of ease. The smile on Ginger's face was gone, replaced with a look of utter horror as the tide rose up and swept away the structure, with her still on it. The six other castaways echoed her fear, running forward, racing toward the tide. But when they got there, the tide had receded just as quickly as it had come, and the structure was floating far out of the lagoon, Ginger still hanging on for dear life, borne away on the current of a loathsome tide.

The castaways stood upon the sodden lagoon shore, frozen. There was nothing they could do but watch. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. They simply stared, imprisoned and paralyzed by their own horror, watching as the seventh castaway left them. The movie star stared back, equally immobile, her photogenic features arranged in a quiet surprise, and a mournful resignation. The six castaways on the beach couldn't hear her anymore, but they saw her smooth lips frame the word anyway.

"Farewell."

And she drifted away, off of the island, out of sight.

The movement resumed then. It was Mrs. Howell first. She turned, slowly, and buried her face into Mr. Howell's shirt. Mr. Howell's arm moved automatically to embrace his wife, and his eyes were sorrow-filled and grim as his wife's muffled sobs grew louder.

Mary Ann's grief was silent. The tears streamed down her face in noiseless rivers, ruining her makeup and wetting her shirt. She didn't move at all.

The Skipper removed his hat, held it to his chest. Whatever happened, he was still the Captain, and the others were still his responsibility. He straightened. He would remain strong, lest everything should fall to pieces. Gravely, he looked around, gauging the others' reactions.

The Professor, like Mary Ann, remained still as stone. He was not crying, simply staring - staring at the place Ginger had once been. The Skipper wondered if he had processed what had just happened yet. With a sigh, the Skipper looked to his little buddy.

Gilligan was staring, too, but he didn't look shocked. He wasn't crying. He wasn't grieving. His hands were balled in fists, and his cerulean eyes were raging worse than any storm in the Skipper's memory. And then, quick as lightning, he sprang forward, bounding for the lagoon, making a beeline for the water. The Skipper barely had time to react before Gilligan was wading in, extremely fast, and eerily _furious_. Bracing himself, the Skipper ran quickly to his irate first mate. He grabbed the younger man with a steel embrace, holding him back, gently but firmly dragging him away from the water.

"There's nothing you can do, Gilligan," he intoned softly, but Gilligan was having none of it.

"I'm getting her back!" he shouted, and the sound echoed through the island like a gunshot. The first mate struggled vigorously, nearly escaping the Skipper's grip more than once. "I'm getting her back! Let me go; I'm getting her _back_! She's coming back! She's coming!"

"She's not coming back." It was a whisper, and yet somehow it was louder than the screaming had been. Gilligan's struggles ceased instantaneously, and all eyes turned to look at the broken Mary Ann.

"She's not coming back," the farm girl repeated, her voice breaking at the end. And then she started to cry in earnest. Gilligan slipped deftly out of the Skipper's arms, and the Skipper watched him go - not to the lagoon, but to Mary Ann.

Silently, gently, Gilligan pulled Mary Ann into a hug, realizing as he did so that this was the second time Mary Ann was sobbing into his bright red shirt. He wondered briefly how often that would happen before the ten plagues were finished, but the thought drifted away, as Ginger had. He held Mary Ann, heard her cries mingling with those of Mrs. Howell, but still he did not cry. There was room only for determination in the sailor's youthful eyes.

"I'll get her back, Mary Ann," he said calmly, matter-of-factly. "She'll come back. Just you wait, Mary Ann. She'll be back."

Mrs. Howell continued to sob endlessly into her husband's shirt. The Professor stared, for once uncomprehending. The Skipper held his Captain's hat, his watchful eyes roaming the harsh horizon. And Mary Ann cried, softly, desperately, as Gilligan's chant continued, a broken record, stuck on repeat.

"I'll get her back, Mary Ann. She'll come back. Just you wait. She'll be back…"

**…..**

Silently, Gilligan walked out of the hut, directing himself towards the still-lit campfire and the lone figure before it. The stars were out, a pale, distant sort of light, and the moon was nowhere to be found. The tide was gentle tonight, quiet. The loudest sound was the cackling of the flames. Approaching the fire, Gilligan sat cross-legged upon the sand. Tentatively, he glanced over at the other castaway - the Professor. The teacher looked, for once, unsure. He stared into the dancing flames, deep in thought, and the firelight reflected back in his haunted eyes. Gilligan opened his mouth to say something, shut it again. He did this several times before he finally spoke up.

"Hi, Professor," he said softly, hesitantly. The Professor did not respond, and yet Gilligan got the sense that he had heard him. The young sailor sighed, shifted his position. He decided to wait for the Professor to talk - if he would talk at all, that is - and instead began to draw quietly in the sand with his finger.

"I don't know what to believe sometimes." Gilligan started at the sudden conversation, then turned to look back at the Professor, who was staring at the stars now. "I'm usually so secure in my knowledge - in my facts, my experiments, my figures. But…" the Professor faltered, swallowed. "There are times when I'm faced with things that don't follow the rules of logic. Things that don't agree with my facts. It's… unsettling, to say the least. And I start to wonder if I'm right to believe only what is logical - to believe only what I see, only what I think is possible. What if these things that defy logic - these things that can't be seen - what if they are true? What if they're real? What if they are _more_ true than these facts and figures that I perceive as truth?" The Professor glanced at Gilligan, stared into the fire once more.

"Do you believe the plagues now, Professor?" Gilligan asked gently.

"I honestly don't know, Gilligan," the Professor replied, shaking his head slightly. "My reason says that it's all coincidence. But then… a part of me begins to wonder if there really is such a thing - if it's possible that coincidence does not exist at all. Just maybe, some things are meant to happen. Maybe there really is fate. Maybe there really is luck. Maybe things are planned." The Professor shook his head again, roughly, as if clearing it. "I just don't know what to believe sometimes," he repeated, almost inaudibly. Sighing, he leaned back in the bamboo chair, and peered intently at Gilligan. "What do you believe, Gilligan?" he asked seriously. The sailor smiled slightly and laid back, spread-eagled in the sand, his eyes full of starlight.

"I believe in good, Professor," he said. "That good triumphs evil. Not just sometimes. _All_ the time. I think that things probably do happen for a reason - for _good_ reasons - even if those reasons aren't always clear at first. I believe in friendship. I believe in others. I believe in these plagues," he added. "But over all else, I believe in _hope_." The sailor fell silent then, and the Professor made no comment. Gilligan glanced over to see that the Professor's expression was part surprised, and part thoughtful. Into the silence, Gilligan added one more thing: "And I believe that Ginger'll come back."

"Gilligan-" the Professor began, but the first mate cut him off.

"I know what you're gonna say, Professor," he told him. "But I'm not in denial. This isn't wishful thinking. This is _belief_, and this is _hope_. It's a founded hope."

"How is it founded, Gilligan?" the Professor asked wearily, but Gilligan could hear an undercurrent of hope in the Professor's voice. The Professor really did want Gilligan's hope to be based on some sort of evidence; he was clutching desperately for any logical reason that Ginger could still be alive.

"The plagues," Gilligan answered simply. "They're specific. Like the second plague - I was _literally_ compelled toward danger. And the fourth plague? It said it would divide us. But it didn't divide us _mentally_; it didn't pit us against each other or anything. It _literally_, _physically_ divided us with that rift. The fifth plague only says that we'd be forced to wish someone farewell. And we did! Well, Ginger did, anyway. We said farewell, and that was all the plague entailed. So she'll come back," he nodded, assuredly.

The Professor pondered over the sailor's words, looking half hopeful, half doubtful. He looked into Gilligan's eyes, and saw it there - the hope, the belief, the certainty. Ginger was alright. Gilligan knew it. And the Professor couldn't fight the rush of hope that swelled, unbidden, inside him. He allowed himself the smallest of smiles, and he looked back up at the twinkling stars overhead. The silvery lights did not seem distant anymore. Instead, they were close, comforting, promising. The Professor stood up then. He nodded a good night to Gilligan, and then slowly walked back to his hut. He relaxed into his makeshift cot, feeling much more positive than he had been feeling only ten minutes before.

Gilligan. He could've been a psychiatrist.

**…..**

Mary Ann felt terrible. She was seated on the edge of her bed, staring blankly at Ginger's empty one. It was early in the morning - too early for anyone else to be up. It was the time she and Ginger always got up to get the breakfast started. But now she was on her own. And she couldn't face that. So she stayed seated on her bed, staring.

Her hut door swung open gently, and none other than Gilligan entered, stumbling forward with his hands over his eyes.

"Mary Ann?" he whispered quietly. "Are you awake?"

"Yes, Gilligan."

"Are you decent?" he whispered. She almost laughed. Almost.

"Yes, Gilligan." He removed his hands from his eyes, but his eyes were still shut. Slowly, he opened one cerulean eye. He saw her sitting there, dressed already, and the other eye followed suit. He stepped closer.

"Well, I just thought that… maybe I could help you with breakfast?" he asked tentatively, his eyes questioning. Blinking back her tears, Mary Ann nodded and stood up, and together the two castaways exited the hut, grabbed buckets, and then headed into the jungle for berries. They picked silently for a while, but Mary Ann could tell Gilligan was plucking up the courage to start a conversation. She could tell he was thinking very carefully about his words; he didn't want to upset her. Finally, as their buckets were nearly half full, he spoke up.

"Are you okay, Mary Ann?" he asked quietly, glancing at her for the quickest of moments. Mary Ann frowned.

"No, not really," she admitted. "I don't actually see how _anyone_ could be okay, after Ginger…" she trailed off, sniffed. She continued picking berries, not meeting Gilligan's eyes. But then he tapped her lightly on the shoulder, getting her attention. She turned to look, and found herself startled by the intensity of his gaze.

"I told you she was coming back," Gilligan said, and he sounded more serious than he ever had. "I'm not kidding. She _will_ come back," he said confidently. The more logical side of Mary Ann protested that this was denial - that this was impossible. But, as Ginger had often remarked, the farm girl was more Mary Poppins than Mary Ann; she had an optimistic outlook that seemed permanently a part of her. And it was clutching at anything. And right now, that thing was Gilligan and his confidence.

"You think so?" she asked him.

"I know it," he said. "And not just like this much," he added, the pointer finger and thumb of his left hand coming together to indicate something small. "I know it like _this much_!" he proclaimed, excitedly throwing his arms wide. The bucket of berries in his hand smashed into a nearby tree as a result of this somewhat overzealous gesture, and Gilligan's right half was suddenly stained with an awful lot of blue.

This time, Mary Ann laughed.

**…..**

The Howells were getting ready for breakfast when they heard a quick knock at their hut door.

"Come in!" Mr. Howell called, turning back to the mirror. He heard uncoordinated footsteps enter their hut, and knew who it was before the voice spoke.

"Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Howell," Gilligan greeted politely. "D'you mind if-" But he stopped suddenly, and didn't finish. Curious, Mr. Howell turned to see the young sailor staring in surprise at him and his wife.

"What are you wearing?" Gilligan asked finally, still looking rather shocked. Mr. and Mrs. Howell were both covered in black, the appropriate mourning color. They looked as if they were going to a funeral, rather than breakfast, and the sight sent slight shivers up Gilligan's spine.

"Gilligan, dear," Mrs. Howell explained gently. "Black is the color one is supposed to wear when one is mourning."

"But…" Gilligan seemed to have lost his train of thought, looking back and forth between the two grim Howells. He reached up and pulled off his white sailor's hat, shaking his head so that the movement ruffled his hair. He put the hat back on, clearly trying to clear his head. "Uh… but why are you wearing that?"

"Mrs. Howell just told you, my boy!" Mr. Howell put in. "Black is the color one is supposed to wear when one is mourning."

"But one is _not _mourning! I mean, _we're_ not mourning!" Gilligan replied, looking confused.

"My goodness!" Mrs. Howell exclaimed. "We've all known Ginger for a long time now, and I don't think the poor girl did _anything_ to make herself unworthy of our grief!"

"No, no, Mrs. Howell!" Gilligan amended quickly. "That's not what I meant. I meant, we're not mourning, because she's not dead." Mr. Howell, who had been fixing his black bow tie, snapped his head up so fast he thought he had given himself whiplash.

"What?!" the two Howells cried together.

"Where is she?" asked Mrs. Howell anxiously.

"What happened?" Mr. Howell practically shouted.

"No, that's not what I mean, either," Gilligan mumbled, put out. "She isn't here. _Yet_. But she _will_ come back," he said, for what was probably the thousandth time. Mr. Howell sighed and went back to fixing his bow tie, and Mrs. Howell's face softened as she regarded the slender first mate.

"Gilligan," she began gently, but Gilligan was already shaking his head vehemently back and forth, his hat threatening to fall off.

"No, Mrs. Howell," he sighed, feeling like he had been a broken record ever since the incident at the lagoon. "It's not denial," he insisted, and then he proceeded to explain what he had told the Professor the night before. Mrs. Howell looked vaguely surprised and hopeful, and she removed her black veil from her head uncertainly. Mr. Howell stopped fixing his bow tie, looking thoughtful. Clearly they were both debating Gilligan's words, weighing their validity. The two millionaires exchanged glances, wondering, hoping. Gilligan looked back and forth between the two, and decided on one last say.

"Please, Mr. and Mrs. Howell," he said softly. "Don't dress so gloomily. She's not dead, honest. You'll see," he told them surely, and he strode swiftly out of the hut.

**…..**

The Skipper came to the breakfast table last. He plunked down into his seat beside Gilligan, and then looked around at the other castaways in barely-concealed amazement. He was expecting everyone to be glum and subdued, with frowns and sighs and maybe even tears. But instead, he found that the atmosphere was almost as it was normally. Not quite as cheerful, perhaps, but still a total shift from what the Skipper had expected. The Howells were wearing an odd mixture of black and color, as if they were attempting to attend a funeral and a party at the same time. The Professor was looking much less somber than he had the day before; he even seemed to be in a very positive mood. Mary Ann was _smiling_. The Skipper shook his head in bewilderment. He wanted to ask what had happened to get everyone in such a good mood, but thought better of it. Instead, he looked questioningly at his first mate, gesturing to the remarkably upbeat castaways. In response, Gilligan smiled hugely, a smug, self-satisfied grin, and then turned back to his food.

"Oh, yeah, Mary Ann!" Gilligan said, remembering something suddenly. "I don't know what made me think of it just now, but remember when you sent those letters in bottles to that guy in Kansas?" Mary Ann blushed, embarrassed, but nodded. "Well, guess what! One of the bottles washed back to the island! I found it the other day on the…" But Gilligan suddenly trailed off, his eyes growing wide. Alarmed, Mary Ann whirled around, but nothing was there. She looked back to Gilligan, who still wore the same expression. The others had noticed now.

"Gilligan, little buddy, what is it?" the Skipper asked. And then Gilligan stood up so fast everyone jumped.

"_That's it!_" he shouted exuberantly, jumping in triumph. "That's it! That's it!"

"What's it?!" Mary Ann asked, nonplussed at his sudden excitement.

**_"The other side!"_**Gilligan shouted, whooping for joy, and quick as a flash, he ran off into the jungle without a backward glance, leaving the castaways in stunned, bewildered silence.


	7. The Sea Shall Not Provide

The first thing Ginger Grant saw was the pale blue sky peeking out from behind the tops of jungle trees. The movie star lay still, and listened. Unseen birds chirped from the trees, and the rush of water was extremely close. Ginger sat up slowly, wincing as pain flashed through her body as she moved. Her slender fingers clenched around warm sand. Now that she was seated, she could see the wreckage of some sort of bamboo structure right in front of her. She ran a hand through her hair, registering somewhere in the back of her mind that it was a hopeless mess, and then closed her eyes, taking a moment to think.

That's when it came back to her. Her eyes snapped open and she stared, horrified, at the bamboo wreckage before her. Tears welled in her eyes as she recalled drifting away from the other castaways, their looks of terror matching her own feelings. And now she was who-knows-where, with no one else to help her. She was completely, utterly_ alone_.

Blinking back tears, she carefully stood up, and although she was bruised and aching, she was relieved that nothing was broken. In fact, she was surprised she was alive at all. Floating away, she had whispered farewell, and she had meant it. She really thought that she was going to her death. And yet here she was.

Alone.

She had never done well alone. With a heavy sigh, she practically collapsed onto a nearby boulder, her head in her hands. A voice that sounded vaguely like Mary Ann came to her then, telling her to stay positive. Ginger smiled sadly, and looked around again, trying to get her bearings. It might have been her imagination, but this island looked harsh to her. Unfamiliar, unfriendly, foreign and menacing. She stood up, backing toward the shore upon which the structure had broken, peering cautiously into the dense surrounding forest. She had no idea what to do. What should someone do first, in a survival situation? She could practically hear the Professor with the answer, lecturing her calmly and surely. _The first and most important priority, upon finding oneself in a harsh, unfamiliar, and dangerous setting, is to seek some form of shelter._

"Okay," she nodded to herself. She stopped backing up and instead went forward, her heartbeat picking up noticeably with every tentative step that brought her closer to the surrounding jungle trees. But suddenly she stopped. Over the pounding of her heart in her ears, she had heard something. It was faint, and far away, but she had definitely heard _something_. Taking a deep breath and calming herself, she listened intently. There it was again. A voice? She opened her mouth to call out, but the words stuck in her throat. The faraway voice was closer now, becoming more distinct. Any second, she would be able to understand the words.

"Ginger!" the voice called. "Ginger!"

And the movie star sank into the sand, her head back in her hands, and the tears came freely. Now she was even imagining Gilligan's voice. But unlike the others, his voice sounded distinctly present, real. It was louder now, coming closer, and the rustle of trees now accompanied the voice. Ginger felt a thrill of fear. Had she gone insane? Had it finally happened? Because now she was hearing footsteps to go along with it, and she buried her head in her arms.

And then the footsteps stopped. The noises ceased. Ginger's breath hitched, and she debated on opening her eyes again. But then it was back.

"Ginger..." Gilligan's voice was soft now. It sounded close, but it was quiet - unsure and cautious. "Ginger, are you okay?" he asked. He sounded scared. The movie star couldn't help it, and she looked up. And there he was, standing just a few feet away, bright red shirt, white sailor's hat, and all. He watched her, and she met his eyes, looking back. She was sure her expression conveyed her astonishment, and her uncertainty.

"Gilligan," she sniffed. "Is that really you?" A flash of sadness darkened the young sailor's features, and he came slowly forward, nodding.

"It's me, Ginger, honest." He stopped just a foot away, watching her. She said nothing. Part of her was ready to jump for joy - he was really here, Gilligan was here! But the more rational part of her continued to insist that this was only a hallucination; this was not reality. But he sure did look real. The sailor in question crouched down to be level with Ginger, who remained seated in the sand. "They all thought you were dead," he said somberly. "But I knew you weren't. I _told_ them. I _knew_ it," he proclaimed, and a ghost of a grin appeared on his face. Ginger still did not respond, and Gilligan looked away, unsure and awkward. "You're not hurt, are you, Ginger?" he asked.

"No," she finally responded, quietly. And then she stared intently into his eyes, searching. "It's really you, Gilligan?"

"Yeah!" Gilligan nodded fervently. "It's really me, Ginger. You're still on our island!" The movie star began slowly moving her head back and forth, a sluggish, disbelieving shake of the head. "No, you really are!" the sailor insisted. "You know what happened? That structure drifted away off the island, yeah, but then it came back! Because there's a current of some kind! Remember those bottles that Mary Ann sent to that guy in Kansas? They washed back to the island, right here. _We're on the other side of the island_."

And then everything clicked. Just like that, the world seemed to slide into focus, and Ginger Grant knew that Gilligan was right. That was why the island had seemed so harsh - it _was_ harsh, or at least,_ this_ side of the island was. And if this was indeed the same island, Gilligan really was here, and so were the others. She slumped in immense relief, her supple lips arranging into a tired smile. Gilligan, seeing it, brightened, realizing that she finally believed him. He stood up with a giant grin.

"Come on," he told her excitedly, and he held a hand out to help her up. But she didn't take it; her mood had darkened once again. Gilligan nearly sighed, but held it in. What was wrong now? The actress's eyes filled with tears once again as she stared despairingly at Gilligan's proffered hand. He slowly lowered it, about to ask her what was wrong, when he noticed that her eyes followed his hand as he lowered it. Nonplussed, he glanced at it too, his brow furrowed in confusion.

And then he understood. There, on his hand, were two thin, not-yet-healed parallel lines - a memento of his own personal encounter with the plagues. He still wasn't sure what he had done - the Skipper hadn't told him. But whatever it had been, it had left a mark - a mark that Ginger was now staring tearfully at. Suddenly self-conscious, the first mate made a fist, his fingers closing around his palm, obscuring the marks from view. He shoved the hand into his pocket, and instead offered Ginger the other. With a sound that was partly a laugh and partly a sob, she took it, and he pulled her to her feet, directing her into the jungle, towards the camp.

"We're going to die, aren't we?" Ginger said then. Gilligan stopped in his tracks, shocked.

"What?"

"The plagues," Ginger reminded him miserably. "They're all true; they're all going to happen. They're going to kill us," she whispered fearfully.

"They didn't kill _you_, did they?" Gilligan remarked calmly, with a small smile.

"Well, no, but-"

"No buts," he told her. And he continued to lead her confidently back towards camp, his good mood not diminished in the slightest. His optimism threw her off, but she found that she was oddly calmed by his quiet confidence. And so she followed the slender sailor, eager to see the other castaways again, and her fears and worries were left on the other side of the island, with the bamboo wreckage.

***earlier***

The castaways around the table stared as Gilligan's running footsteps faded away into silence. The Skipper shifted as if debating on getting up and pursuing his first mate, but then he settled back down; Gilligan was long gone. He picked up his fork and went back to his breakfast with a sigh.

"Who knows what that boy's getting into," Mr. Howell sighed, with a shake of his head.

"I do hope he hasn't gone island happy," Mrs. Howell put in. The castaways mostly shrugged it off, used to Gilligan's odd behavior.

"But what is he doing?" Mary Ann asked, still concerned. "Why did he run off like that?"

"Oh, I wouldn't worry, Mary Ann," the Skipper placated between mouthfuls. "I'm sure he'll tell us all about it when he gets back."

**...**

The last of the castaways had finished their breakfast when Gilligan got back. He crept up into view of the table quietly, with a huge face-splitting grin. He stood there smugly, where the jungle began, and waited with his hands behind his back, teetering back and forth on his toes in barely-contained excitement. The castaways, however, were wrapped up in their respective conversations, and didn't even notice the sailor's arrival. Gilligan waited a few moments, but then, impatient, he cleared his throat loudly, and they all turned around, surprised.

"Gilligan!" the Skipper called. "Come sit down and eat your breakfast already," he ordered lightly, gesturing to the table, but Gilligan only shook his head, stayed in position.

"What's going on, Gilligan?" Mary Ann asked curiously, but Gilligan only smiled wider. He had their full attention. Now was the moment. He cleared his throat loudly again, and using his best announcer voice, began to talk, theatrically.

"_Presenting: the beautiful, one-of-a-kind Hollywood actress, America's sweetheart,__** Ginger Grant!**_" And he ran out of the way, just as Ginger emerged dramatically from within the jungle, smiling widely and posing as if for paparazzi. There was a beat of utter silence as the castaways stared, trying to process the fact that Ginger was not only alive, but there, on the island, safe and sound. And although her dress was torn and dirtied, and her flawless complexion was marred with various bruises, and her luscious hair was a hopeless mess, Ginger Grant had never looked more beautiful in the castaways' eyes.

The beat of silence ended, and instant pandemonium took its place. Gilligan, watching from the side, was surprised that no one was trampled in the rush to reach Ginger. The castaways seemed to converge upon the movie star in one energetic wave - a wave far different from the one that had carried her away. Everyone was babbling all at once, questions and comments and exclamations. The castaways were shouting over each other, and yet none of them seemed to mind. Gilligan, chuckling to himself, plopped down at the table and started on his breakfast. _Mmm_, he thought. _Breakfast and a show_.

**...**

"The fish really aren't biting at all lately," the Skipper commented to his first mate. But despite the negative statement, he was smiling broadly. It was true - the fish hadn't been biting at all, not for the past few days. However, no one could yet bring themselves to be worried or bothered by it; everyone was still too elated by Ginger's return to be bothered by having to eat a few extra coconuts than was normal. In fact, everyone was so pleased at Ginger's return, the castaways were worried about nothing at all, and the plagues that had once so disturbed them were now near forgotten.

But Gilligan had not forgotten. And that was why he simply shrugged at the Skipper's comment, and cast his baited line far into the lagoon anyway, even though he knew it was useless. _Sixth, the Sea shall not provide without some Sacrifice._ The words echoed in his head as he watched his line bob in the current; there were no bites, and there would be none for a while, he knew. His stomach grumbled faintly as he watched his line, and he hoped, not for the first time, that this plague would be over soon. The Skipper sighed then, and Gilligan glanced over to see the older man rubbing his belly; clearly, he was hungry, too.

"I'd give _anything_ for some fish right now," the Skipper complained lightly. "Or lobster. Or clams."

"Don't say that, Skipper," Gilligan frowned.

"Say what?" the Skipper asked, confused at his little buddy's reaction.

"Don't give _anything_ up for fish," was Gilligan's mysterious but firm response. The Skipper almost let the odd comment go, but something told him not to drop it. Instead, he watched his first mate closer, frowned as he noticed the way Gilligan's eyes wandered, in boredom, from his line, as if he already _knew_ he was not going to get any bites.

"Gilligan," the Skipper began, reeling in his untouched line and walking over to the young sailor. "Do you know something I don't?" he asked.

"Oh, no, Skipper," Gilligan replied quickly. "I bet the Professor does, though." He was dancing around the subject, expertly changing the topic, and the Skipper's frown deepened.

"Gilligan," he said again, and this time his voice contained a warning. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing's the matter, Skip..." but Gilligan trailed off at the look the Skipper was giving him. He sighed, and then unexpectedly looked around conspiratorially, as if checking to see if they were alone. Curious, the Skipper leaned in to hear Gilligan's whispered words. "It's the sixth plague, Skipper," Gilligan told him. "_Sixth, the Sea shall not provide without some Sacrifice,_" he quoted.

"Sacrifice?" the Skipper echoed loudly, and a sense of foreboding descended over him as the ominous word left his mouth.

"Shhh!" Gilligan hushed. "Right now, no one remembers about the plagues, 'cause of Ginger," he explained quietly. "And we should keep it that way, right, Skipper? 'Cause we don't want anyone trying to sacrifice anything, do we, Skipper?"

"No, little buddy, we certainly don't," the Skipper agreed quickly, nodding. "But all the same, we can't rely solely on coconuts for nutrition. We had better keep trying to fish, just in case. Maybe we'll get lucky. Or maybe the Professor is right, and the plagues don't exist."

"You don't believe that, Skipper," Gilligan said, surprised.

"You're right; I don't. Still, we should try our hardest to get _something_ out of the sea. And even if we don't, we can't remind the others of the plague. We don't want anyone doing anything foolish - we won't sacrifice a_ thing_." Gilligan nodded, and the Skipper got ready to cast his line once more. "Oh, and Gilligan," he added. His first mate looked over, and the two met eyes. "That means _you_ don't try anything foolish either, alright, little buddy?"

"Skipper!" Gilligan complained, indignant.

"_Alright_, little buddy?"

"Alright," Gilligan agreed petulantly, still pouting, and the Skipper nodded, satisfied. "But if I have to promise you I won't do anything stupid, _you_ have to promise _me_ you won't do anything stupid, either."

"Gilligan," the Skipper growled.

"_Promise_, Skipper," Gilligan insisted.

"I promise, Gilligan," the Skipper snapped exasperatedly, rolling his eyes. Despite his irritation with his first mate for making him promise that, the Skipper was not really mad; he knew the young sailor was only worried, just as the Skipper was worried about him. With a sigh, he cast his line once again, far into the gentle waters. At the same moment, Gilligan reeled his own line in, unsurprisingly without any bites, or even nibbles. The Skipper looked back at his own line again, wondering if they were just wasting time, when a small hiss of pain made him glance sharply over to his first mate.

"You okay, little buddy?"

"Yeah, Skipper," Gilligan responded, and the Skipper saw that he was frowning at his right hand. "I just got my hand caught on my hook is all," he said, and he held up his hand, showing the Skipper a small red cut on the palm, almost perfectly in between the two parallel cuts already present. The Skipper frowned at the reminder, and watched as Gilligan stuck his hand in the water and swished it around, rinsing it, mumbling something about it always being _that_ hand.

At that exact moment, the Skipper's pole jerked beneath his fingers. He and Gilligan exchanged wide-eyed looks.

"Skipper," Gilligan said quietly, in an odd voice. "You got a bite."

"Yeah," the Skipper agreed in a low voice, and he reeled in the fish in astonishment. It was a good-sized one, enough for tonight's dinner. The Skipper pulled it off the hook and then quickly cast his line back. The two men waited with bated breath for what seemed like ages, but there were no more bites. Nothing. The Skipper reeled his line back in and looked to Gilligan, who stared at his hand in surprise.

"You got a bite right when I put my hand in the water," he pointed out.

"I did, yes."

"My bleeding hand."

"...Yes." The two exchanged bewildered glances, and stared out suspiciously at the innocent-looking sea, shimmering and cheerful beneath the afternoon sun.

**...**

One by one, the castaways passed the plates down the table, until each person had one. The plates steamed with hot, fresh-cooked fish and vegetables, and the Skipper's mouth watered just to look at it. He rubbed his hands in hungry excitement, then dug in. It was delicious, and he found, to his surprise, that he had missed fish, even though they had only gone a few days without it. He remembered thinking that getting shipwrecked on an island was sure to make him sick of fish eventually - but if it was going to happen at all, it certainly had not happened yet. The food was just as delicious as it had ever been. The others seemed to be enjoying their food equally as well.

"The fish is excellent, Mary Ann," the Professor complimented, taking a drink out of the coconut cup before him. "It's odd, though. I didn't notice before, but now that I think about it, we haven't had any seafood in a while, compared to our usual frequency of consumption." Mary Ann smiled at the Professor's vocabulary, but nodded in agreement anyway.

"You're right," she said. "I guess we haven't had it in a while," she shrugged. "Probably, the fishing's just been bad lately, huh, Skipper?"

Meanwhile, Ginger was staring at her fish in mild surprise.

"What's the matter, Ginger? Never seen a fish before?" Gilligan laughed. But when Ginger looked up at him, her eyes held no hint of jest.

"What did you sacrifice?" she asked plainly, looking back and forth between the sailor and his captain.

"Sacrifice?" Mary Ann echoed, confused. The Skipper was looking grim, and he and Gilligan exchanged glances. Neither of them replied.

"Is something the matter?" the Professor wondered, setting down his fork. Everyone had stopped eating, and four pairs of curious eyes moved between Ginger, Gilligan, and the Skipper, waiting for someone to speak.

"It's the plagues," Ginger told them, and the atmosphere darkened, as if a shadow followed the words wherever they went.

"The sixth plague?" Mary Ann asked nervously, trying to conceal the tremor in her voice.

"_Sixth, the Sea shall not provide without some Sacrifice,_" Ginger quoted. Mary Ann, the Professor, and the Howells glanced down at their fish. Silence reigned.

"We didn't sacrifice anything," Gilligan told them then, and he noticed the flash of relief that crossed the Professor's face.

"How did you get the fish, then?" Ginger asked, surprised.

"Well..." Gilligan trailed off, glanced at the Skipper for assistance.

"I guess it's more accurate if we say we didn't sacrifice anything _on purpose_," the Skipper put in.

"Oh, I wish everyone would stop being so cryptic," Mary Ann complained, crossing her arms. "Just tell us what happened."

"I caught my hand on my hook when we were fishing," Gilligan supplied, shrugging. "It was bleeding, so I rinsed it off in the water, and then Skipper got a bite."

"Coincidence," the Professor pronounced immediately. Ginger and the Skipper both sighed, and Mary Ann and the Howells looked unconvinced. But Gilligan, watching the Professor, remembered their talk by the fire, and wondered whether the Professor was really as confident as he seemed.

"So just to get this straight," Mr. Howell began. "We can't get any seafood without sacrificing something?"

"That seems to be the case, Mr. Howell," the Skipper responded.

"Oh, Thurston, we'll just throw some money in," Mrs. Howell suggested happily.

"I sure wish it worked that way, Mrs. Howell," the Skipper said. "But something tells me money isn't going to cut it." Mr. Howell frowned, disturbed.

"What are we going to do?" Mary Ann asked worriedly.

"I'll tell you what we're _not_ going to do," the Skipper said, and his voice rang with authority. "We are not going to sacrifice anything, and that's an order. It's not worth it."

"The Skipper is right," the Professor nodded. "There is no proof that sacrificing anything will get us fish. There just isn't a correlation there. We should just keep fishing like normal."

"That's right, Professor," the Skipper went on. "Now, we are all going to promise not to sacrifice anything." The castaways shifted, uncomfortable.

"Let me put it like this," the Professor tried. "Gilligan, I'm sure you wouldn't mind sacrificing anything, if it would help the others. Am I right?"

"Of course, Professor! Without a second thought! Without a first thought!"

"Exactly," the Professor nodded. "But would any of you want to see Gilligan sacrifice anything for your own sakes?" The other castaways shook their heads fervently, and Mary Ann paled at the thought. "And Gilligan," the Professor continued. "You wouldn't like it if any of them sacrificed anything for _your_ sake, would you?" Gilligan didn't reply, but his expression was answer enough.

"Then we're all agreed," the Professor stated firmly. "I promise to sacrifice nothing."

"I promise, too."

"I promise."

"I promise." The words traveled around the table.

"Then we're decided," the Skipper declared, satisfied, after they had all agreed. "We'll continue fishing like normal, and hope for this plague to pass. Gilligan and I will try fishing at the lagoon again tomorrow," he announced, swallowing the rest of the fish on his plate. "Wish us luck," he added, nodding at the others over the rim of his coconut cup. "We'll need it."

**...**

"Lobster! Lobster! Lobster!"

The enthusiastic cry woke the Skipper up with a jolt. Sitting straight up in his hammock, he heard it again.

"Oh, boy! Look, everybody! Lobster!" The Skipper recognized the voice immediately, and barreled out of the hut. He was not the only one; the other castaways were coming out of their huts too, gathering around to see the commotion. The cause of said commotion was, of course, Gilligan, who was running and jumping in excited circles around the communal table, upon which sat one of his large lobster traps... filled with lobster.

"Wow!" Mary Ann gasped, a smile stretching across her face. "What happened?"

"Gilligan..." the Skipper began, his tone suspicious, but Gilligan was already shaking his head.

"I didn't, Skipper! I didn't do anything!" He was out of breath, still unable to contain his excitement; the Skipper felt like he was watching a squirrel who had been given five cups of coffee. "I just went to the lagoon to check the traps just in case, and look!_ Lobster!_"

"Alright, little buddy, now relax; you're making me tired just watching you," the Skipper told him, gently pushing his squirming first mate down onto the bench.

"But what happened, then?" Mary Ann persisted. "Nobody sacrificed anything?" The castaways all looked around at each other, and each one responded in the negative.

"I guess it just... ended," Ginger shrugged. The end of the sixth plague was a good thing, of course, but Ginger couldn't help but be the tiniest bit disappointed. It was, after all, _extremely_ anticlimactic.

"I think we should have a party," Mrs. Howell announced happily, clapping her hands in eagerness.

"Oh, yes!" Ginger jumped in immediately. "I just_ love_ a good party," she purred.

"Great!" the Skipper exclaimed. "You girls get the party set up, and Gilligan and I will go get some seafood!" The castaways cheered and laughed at this, and if the Howells' laughter was more conspiratorial than usual, no one noticed.

***earlier***

"Thurston, we simply must do _something_," Mrs. Howell declared, pacing back and forth inside their hut.

"I know, dear," Mr. Howell replied from his seat on the bed. "But what?"

"I'm still thinking of that," she replied, and then Mr. Howell stood up.

"My turn, Lovey dear," he said, and he began to pace as Mrs. Howell took a seat.

"We'll have to sacrifice something," she said seriously. "There isn't another way. It's just..." she trailed off.

"What is it, Lovey?"

"Well, we _promised_ not to sacrifice anything," she frowned.

"Lovey," Mr. Howell rejoined, "did I get to my present elevated position by _keeping promises_?"

"Oh, of course, Thurston, you're right," she smiled, nodding. "If anyone is allowed to break a promise, it's a Howell."

"That's right, Lovey. So, what are we going to sacrifice?" he wondered.

"My turn, dear," Mrs. Howell cut in, taking up the pacing and giving Mr. Howell her seat. "We can just sacrifice some money," she suggested.

"Darling, you heard the captain. He said it doesn't work that way. We have to sacrifice something that _means_ something to us - it really has to be a sacrifice to give it away."

"Jewelry?" she asked. Mr. Howell shook his head. "Clothes?" Another no. "Hats, then."

"Something we'd hate to give away," Mr. Howell mumbled, thinking. He sighed, and silence pervaded the hut. "My turn," he said, switching places with his wife. He began to pace once more, and stuck his hands in his pockets. His right hand came into contact with a worn and crumpled piece of paper.

"That's it!" he shouted suddenly, and Mrs. Howell stood up and rushed over.

"What is it, Thurston?" she asked excitedly. "You know what to sacrifice?"

In answer, the millionaire pulled the paper from his pocket, held it out in full view. _The New York Times_ financial page.

"But, Thurston!" Mrs. Howell cried. "That paper means a lot to you!"

"I know, dear."

"You're going to miss it terribly..."

"I know, dear." At these words, Mrs. Howell engulfed her husband in a warm hug.

"Thurston, you're very brave, sacrificing such a treasured possession for your friends," she cooed. Her praise seemed to harden his resolve, and he took her hand and led her out of the hut, to the lagoon. It was dark, and the others were sleeping, so they had no risk of being seen.

They approached the lagoon shore in the moonlight, hands intertwined. Mr. Howell, with a sigh, reached down and set the financial page into the water, and the current began to drift it slowly away. A wave of sadness crashed upon Mr. Howell as he watched it go - their last tie to the life they had left on the mainland. He watched until the page disappeared in the darkness, and he wondered, for a moment, if they would ever see the mainland again. Would they live the rest of their lives on this island? He looked up into the sky, lit by the benevolent moon and the shimmering stars. The quiet rush of the surf could be heard, and the leaves of the palms rustled in the night breeze. The island smelled of the sea, of the sand, of the sun. He breathed it in as his wife held him, and thought that maybe the island was not such a bad place after all. Life here was different, and maybe - just maybe - it was a little bit _more_.

"You are marvelous, Thurston," Mrs. Howell proclaimed proudly.

"I know, dear," Mr. Howell said smugly.

**...**

_Then half of ye condemned to fire, half of ye to ice._


	8. Half of Ye to Fire, Half of Ye to Ice

The Professor's eyes peeled open, and he stared into the darkness. The night was silent. He was laying on his bed, inside his hut, and he lay still. He listened. Nothing. Not a thing seemed out of place. So what had woken him up? He sighed, and watched as his breath rose up visibly into the air. And he realized, with a start, what it was. It was cold. Not simply chilly, but _freezing_.

_He had seen his own breath._

He sat up, perplexed, and felt the cold night air sink inside his bones as the blanket fell off of him. What was going on? He could never remember it being so cold on the island, not even during winter. Curious and restless, he grabbed the blanket, draped it over his shoulders, and walked outside.

Oddly enough, it seemed to be warmer outside. The island air seemed just as it usually was - a nice, cool but comfortable breeze playing with the palm fronds. But although the atmosphere itself was warmer, the Professor still felt cold. It was as if the cold was no longer outside, but inside - as if the ice that had seeped into his bones was staying there, and was spreading, unchecked, through his entire body. He had swallowed Antarctica. A chill ran down his spine, quick and quiet, the way the silhouette in the background flashes briefly past the camera lens in a horror film. He shivered involuntarily, and drew the blanket closer. Troubled, with a blizzard of questions in his brain, he went silently to the communal table.

As he approached, he realized that there were two others there already. Ginger and Mary Ann were huddled together beneath a blanket. The Professor drew nearer, and the girls, hearing his footsteps in the sand, looked up simultaneously.

"Oh, Professor!" Ginger called. "Isn't it just _freezing_?" she asked, her big blinking eyes brimming with worry.

"It _is_ very cold," the Professor agreed. Ginger gestured him to sit beside her, and he did so. The three fiddled around for a minute, and then they were all huddled together beneath two blankets.

"I don't understand," Mary Ann said quietly, her voice soft with concern. "Body heat is supposed to warm people up, but Ginger, you're not making me feel any warmer; in fact, you feel just as cold as I do."

"I'm not getting any warmth from you, either," Ginger pouted. "You feel like a living ice sculpture," she complained. But still she did not move away.

"I'm afraid that's how you feel as well, Ginger," the Professor commented. It was like sitting beside the wall of a glacier. But the Professor felt like ice himself, so it didn't seem to matter much.

"Oh, I thought we were in the South _Pacific_, not the South _Pole_!" Ginger lamented. Just then, the door to the Skipper and Gilligan's hut swung open, and the three shivering castaways watched as the Skipper moved toward them. He came within earshot, and they heard him sigh heavily.

"Boy, is it _hot_!" he exclaimed sincerely.

"_Hot?!_" the others echoed together, regarding the Skipper as if he had gone insane.

"_Burning_," the Skipper emphasized, and as he got closer, the others could see that he was indeed sweating. He pulled off his beloved captain's hat and used it as a fan, vigorously waving it back and forth, trying to cool himself down. He stopped short as he reached the communal table. He took in the three other castaways, huddled together beneath blankets, and still shivering. He gaped, speechless. The confusion on the shivering castaways' faces reflected his own.

"What… what are you all doing beneath those blankets?" he asked slowly.

"It's… freezing?" Mary Ann responded, equally as slowly. It sounded like a question. The Skipper blinked.

"You're all _cold_?" Three blanketed bobble-heads nodded back. "But… I don't understand. It's burning hot! I half expected the hut to spontaneously combust!"

"Our bucket of freshwater froze," Ginger informed him, her eyes wide. The Skipper said nothing. Both sides were in disbelief, but the evidence could not be denied. Mary Ann, Ginger, and the Professor were physically shivering. The Skipper was sweating, looking heated. He and the girls turned to look at the Professor, but the scholar was looking just as confused as they were. They could practically see the wheels turning in his brain, searching furiously for an answer, an explanation.

"Maybe," he began slowly, grasping at straws, "it really is cold on the island. It's cold, and the Skipper feels hot because he has a fever."

"I don't feel sick, Professor," the Skipper told him. But Mary Ann had jumped on the idea.

"Yeah, that's it!" she nodded excitedly. "The Skipper must have a fever. Three of us feel cold, and Skipper is the only one who doesn't!"

"But I feel fine," the Skipper protested, "except that it feels like I'm in the middle of the Sahara desert!" Mary Ann opened her mouth to respond, but just then-

"_No! Please, don't!_" The frantic cry carried down to the castaways from the Skipper and Gilligan's hut. "_No!_" repeated Gilligan's distraught voice. The castaways were struck still for a moment, and the blanketed castaways felt themselves grow even colder with fear.

"_Gilligan!_" the Skipper cried, breaking the paralysis, and he started to run towards the hut. But he had only taken two steps before Gilligan came stumbling out of the hut himself. The Skipper stopped short in surprise, and then started to continue towards his first mate, but the young sailor waved him back to the table. The Skipper walked slowly backwards, carefully watching his first mate hurriedly advance to the table. His heartbeat thrummed loudly in his ears. The castaways watched as Gilligan came closer. Soon, he stepped into view, and they were able to see that he was sweating as well, looking just as scorched as the Skipper.

"Sorry," he told them quickly, before anyone could say anything. The tone of his voice told them that his flushed face was due to embarrassment, as well as heat. "I had a dream that I was Hansel - and Mary Ann, you were Gretel - and we went into the jungle and found a house made of coconut and coconut cream and pineapple and banana and then the witch caught us and threw us in the oven!" he explained animatedly, without pausing for breath. He shivered, frowning, but not from cold. "I didn't mean to scream, sorry. I'm alright," he tacked on. The girls sighed in relief, and the Skipper sat down hard on the communal table bench.

"Gilligan," he scolded wearily, too hot to make the effort to swipe at Gilligan with his hat, "what are you trying to _do_, huh? Give me a _heart attack_?"

"Sorry, Skipper," Gilligan mumbled again, and he slumped onto the bench, next to his captain. "Anyway," he went on, "why is it so _hot_? I feel like I _am_ in an oven." And then he frowned at the girls and the Professor. "And why are you all under _blankets_?" The Professor sighed, feeling just as weary as the Skipper, and ran a hand over his face. He opened his mouth to respond, but the sound that followed was Mr. Howell's booming voice.

"A hundred thousand dollars to the first person to make this dreadful heat go away!"

**…..**

"I got 'em!" Gilligan called, staggering over to the communal table with a pile of blankets in his arms. "We _definitely_ don't need 'em, so you guys can take these," he told Ginger, the Professor, and Mary Ann.

"Oh, thank you, Gilligan!" Ginger responded. The Skipper, seated across from her, groaned loudly.

"Just _seeing_ blankets makes me feel hotter," he grumbled. "I still don't understand how you all can be freezing, while we're over here burning up!"

"Well, we've already established that this is because of the plagues," Ginger said. "And with the plagues, anything could happen," Ginger shrugged. The Professor chose not to comment.

"Here, somebody take these blankets off me before I catch fire," Gilligan urged, holding the jumble of warm fabric out. Mary Ann untangled herself from the blankets she, Ginger, and the Professor were already covered in, and eagerly came up to the first mate, rubbing her arms against the cold. She reached out to take them, and Gilligan reached out to give them, and for a split second, their hands touched. The two castaways jumped apart, lightning fast, with cries of pain.

"Ouch!" Mary Ann yelped, her eyes welling with tears. Gilligan was hopping around, hissing with pain, holding his throbbing hand.

"Professor!" the Skipper cried, astonished. "What happened?" he asked, getting up to see to his first mate. "Why, he's burned!" the Skipper reported, bewildered, as he examined Gilligan's hand; there was an angry red mark where he and Mary Ann had come into contact with each other.

"Skipper, I don't know exactly how this is possible, but it appears that Gilligan was burnt in much the same way you can get 'burnt' from handling dry ice. And Mary Ann was burnt as well, from heat," he explained. But the explanation did not lessen his - or anyone's - surprise.

"You mean… Gilligan is hot enough to burn Mary Ann, and Mary Ann is cold enough to burn Gilligan?" Mr. Howell questioned.

"Yes, Mr. Howell, I'm afraid that's correct," the Professor said. "The difference in temperature between the two of them seems to be enough to cause such burns."

"I knew I was cold, but I didn't think I was _that_ cold," Mary Ann said mournfully, maneuvering awkwardly back under the blankets using only one hand.

"I didn't think I was that _hot_," Gilligan added with a frown.

"Well, never mind that now, little buddy. I'm gonna go get some water and bandages for you two," the Skipper announced, getting up from the table and going back inside the hut.

"Thanks, Skipper," Gilligan replied, sitting down at the table with a sigh. "_Always_ this hand…" he mumbled sourly.

"Gee, it was bad enough that we're either too hot or too cold; now we can't even _touch_ each other!" Ginger fretted.

"How perfectly dreadful!" Mrs. Howell cried. "Thank goodness my darling Thurston and I are both the same temperature," she added gratefully, lovingly patting her husband's cheek.

"Yes, dear," he returned with a smile, just as the Skipper came back. He set a bucket of water on the table and laid bandaging down next to it. Gilligan eagerly stuck his hand in the bucket - and pulled it right back out again.

"Yow!" he exclaimed, shaking his hand crazily, sending water droplets flying. "It's _hot_!" he shouted, and his voice went up several octaves on the last word.

"Hot?!" the Skipper gasped. He stuck his finger in the bucket - and pulled it back just as quick as Gilligan had. "Hot!" he exclaimed in agreement. "Any hotter, and it'd _boil_!"

"Skipper," the Professor cut in urgently. "Did you get that water from your hut?" he asked.

"Why, yes," the Skipper answered with a nod. The Professor snapped his fingers in understanding, and Ginger gasped as well, seemingly having followed the same line of thought.

"Of course!" she breathed. "The huts! That's why Mary Ann and I came out here; our hut was freezing! Oh, it makes sense! I was wondering how this plague was going to happen, because it says that half of us will be condemned to fire, and half of us to ice. Except that's not possible, because we have seven people - we can't be divided in half. But of course, we live in _four_ different huts - so half of them are condemned to fire, and half of them to ice!"

"Wow, Ginger, you're right!" Gilligan interjected. "It makes a lot more sense than _my_ guess. I thought that the Skipper would just be counted as two people." And then he cringed under the Skipper's pointed glare.

"Mr. and Mrs. Howell," the Professor continued, "is your hut hot as well?"

"Terribly," Mrs. Howell informed him. "We moved our money outside of our hut, in case the hut caught fire."

"That's great!" the Professor exclaimed.

"It's great that they moved their money?" Gilligan asked, confused.

"No, it's great that their hut is hot!" the Professor clarified excitedly.

"It is?" the Skipper asked doubtfully, exchanging baffled glances with his first mate.

"Yes!" the Professor maintained. "Don't you see? If our huts are freezing cold, and your huts are burning up, we should go into each other's huts! Perhaps that will help warm us up and cool us down!"

"Oh, Professor, you're a _genius_!" Ginger proclaimed.

"How marvelous!" Mrs. Howell celebrated.

Similar cries of praise and excitement issued from all the castaways, and they scrambled around, making their way to others' huts as quickly as possible while trying not to run over each other. The Skipper exuberantly steered himself and Gilligan towards the girls' hut, overjoyed at the idea of a solution to this particularly unpleasant plague.

"I can't believe it!" he enthused.

**…..**

"I can't believe it," the Skipper sighed sadly.

The castaways were back around the communal table once again. The idea of switching huts had proved unsuccessful, and the bitter taste of disappointment lingered on the castaways' tongues.

"It was the weirdest sensation," Mary Ann spoke up. "I could _tell_ it was hot inside the hut… but I still felt _cold_."

"Oh, it's useless," Ginger moaned ruefully. "I guess this is another plague we'll just have to ride out, like the darkness."

"I'd take darkness over _this_ any day," the Skipper grumbled.

"I'd give my many millions if it would end this plague now," Mr. Howell declared, yawning hugely - a yawn Mrs. Howell repeated immediately.

"Thurston, I'm dreadfully tired," she told him with a sigh.

"Tired?" came Mary Ann's muffled voice from a lumpy bundle of blankets. Only her eyes were visible through the small opening in the heavy cloth. "No way I could sleep like this!"

"Heat makes people lethargic," the Professor explained knowledgeably. As if to prove the Professor's point, Gilligan, who had been leaning on his elbow with his eyes closed, shifted; his elbow dropped over the edge of the table, and his head slammed down to hit the bamboo surface. He popped his head up immediately, eyes wide and dazed.

"Huh? You say somethin', Skipper?" he asked, disoriented, blinking owlishly at his captain.

"No, Gilligan," the Skipper replied lightly, amused.

"Oh, okay," Gilligan mumbled, and then slammed his head back down onto the table with a snore. A half-hearted giggle issued from Mary Ann's blankets.

"Anyway, what about food?" the Skipper asked. "I, for one, am far too hot to do _anything_, even eat."

"I'm too _cold_ to do anything," Ginger supplied.

"I doubt that any of us will be in any mood to enjoy our food at all - not while we're like this," the Professor declared. "However, when it nears sunset today, we should eat something, no matter how hot or cold we are. We don't want to starve ourselves."

"You're right, Professor," the Skipper agreed. And then he yawned.

"Oh, don't fall asleep on us, too, Skipper," Ginger pleaded. "Mary Ann, the Professor, and I will be the only ones awake soon," she pouted.

"Actually, Ginger is right; you shouldn't fall asleep," the Professor informed the Skipper and the Howells. "I know you're all tired, but if you fall asleep, you'll just get even more lethargic. Plus, you need to be awake to keep yourselves hydrated."

"Hydrated? What, with our hot water?" the Skipper asked distastefully. The Professor frowned, thinking.

"Of course!" he cried suddenly, slapping his hand down onto the table, and Gilligan shot up once again, startled awake. "I bet the water in the freshwater trough is still at a normal temperature! After all, it's not in any of our huts."

"Oh, boy!" Gilligan cheered, suddenly wide awake, and he stood up, licking his lips eagerly. "I'll go get some," he told them. And he grabbed the bucket of hot water off the table and started off.

**…..**

Gilligan approached the communal table with the recently-filled bucket of water, pleased with its satisfyingly normal temperature, and took in the other castaways, blanketed and non-blanketed respectively. They were all leaning into the center of the table, apparently intent on their conversation. The Skipper had a stick in one hand, and was using it to periodically make a dash in the sand - Gilligan suspected he was keeping score. As he neared the table, he heard Mr. Howell's triumphant voice.

"Cuba to Aruba!" he sung out, grinning, and the Skipper leaned over to make another tick in the sand.

"Timbuktu to Waterloo!" Mary Ann put in excitedly. Another tick.

"Hawaii to Kauai," Gilligan put in helpfully, setting the bucket on the table, along with a bamboo ladle and some cups.

"Sorry, little buddy, I got that one already," the Skipper told him. "And thanks for the water," he added, grabbing a cup. Mr. and Mrs. Howell followed suit.

"You're welcome," Gilligan smiled. And then: "Austin to Boston." The Skipper, drinking deeply from his cup, merely handed Gilligan the stick. The first mate grinned and looked down to the makeshift scoreboard, with the letters "TH" for Mr. Howell, "LH" for Mrs. Howell, "S" for Skipper, "P" for the Professor, "G" for Ginger, and "M" for Mary Ann. The Professor was in the lead with five points. The Skipper and Mr. Howell were tied with three, and Ginger, Mrs. Howell, and Mary Ann were in a three-way tie with two points each. Gilligan added another G to Ginger's to differentiate between them, then put another G on the board, adding one point beneath it. He sat up, handed the stick back to the Skipper, and got a cup of his own.

"Canton to Scranton," Gilligan supplied, before gulping the fresh, cool water down. The Skipper leaned over to mark the score, and barely sat up again before Gilligan spoke again. "Shanghai to Molokai." The first mate filled his cup once again and put it to his lips, again pausing to put in "Marrakesh to Bangladesh."

"Gee, Gilligan, you're really good at this!" Mary Ann praised.

"Thanks, Cancún to Cameroon."

"Bali to Mali!" Mr. Howell interjected. "I'm determined to win this!"

"Not so fast, Howell," the Skipper rejoined smugly. "Nigeria to Siberia."

"Marseilles to Paraguay," the Professor jumped in.

"Oh, Thurston, I can't think of anything!" Mrs. Howell fretted, as Ginger burst out "Samoa to Genoa".

"Romania to Albania!"

"Tripoli to Tennessee!"

**…..**

"I said that one already!" cried the Skipper, indignantly.

"I don't think so, Captain," Mr. Howell denied calmly. "I didn't hear it."

"Well just because you didn't hear it, doesn't mean I didn't say it!"

"Uh, Skipper…" Gilligan cut in.

"Not now, Gilligan."

"But Skipper!"

"Not _now_, Gilligan. Really, someone must have heard me say it! Do you remember Professor?" The Professor's answering shrug was accompanied by another insistent "Skipper!" from Gilligan.

"Mary Ann, do you remember?"

"Sorry," she shrugged sympathetically.

"But Skipper, really you should-"

"Ginger, how about you?"

"Skipper!"

"Sorry, Skipper, I wish I could say I did. We've all been spouting off so many places that-"

"Skipperrr!"

"-I can't remember who said what, let alone what's been said or not."

"_Skipperrr!_"

"_What_, Gilligan?" the Skipper finally snapped. The first mate slumped slightly in relief at finally being acknowledged. He sighed shortly, a little exasperated huff, and then pointed immediately to the hut he and the Skipper shared.

"Our hut's on fire." This remark produced immediate and appropriate alarm. The castaways sprang into action, their heat or their cold respectively ignored for the moment, and ran to put the fire out. Buckets of water were filled and emptied, changing hands quickly and efficiently, and soon, the small flames that had sprung up around the hut were extinguished.

As exhausted as the flames, the castaways sprawled on the sand together, watching the black smoke fade away into the purple sky. The sun was setting, and a cool breeze blew around them, fiddling with their hair and messing with their clothes. The Professor sighed deeply, relaxed by the gentle breeze and the island sounds.

"Well, I'm glad all those fire drills paid off," he smiled slightly.

"Oh, yes, Professor," Ginger murmured. "You always have such great ideas. Those drills sure came in handy."

"Yes, you were quite right about forcing us to participate, Professor," Mrs. Howell told him.

"That's right, Lovey," Mr. Howell smiled smugly. "They couldn't have done it without a little Howell help." The others chuckled lightly.

"Oh, this breeze feels perfectly wonderful! So nice and cool," Mrs. Howell commented aloud.

"It sure does," Mary Ann agreed happily. "That fire sure heated things up a lot."

There was a beat of silence as the castaways processed the last bit of conversation. And then they slowly sat up as one, eyes wide, like a septet of Draculas arising from their coffins.

"The breeze is cool," Mrs. Howell repeated slowly.

"The fire was hot," Mary Ann repeated.

And then the castaways cheered - loudly and exuberantly. Mrs. Howell was no longer hot; Mary Ann was no longer cold. The plague was over. Eventually, the cheering began to quiet a little, and then one particularly loud cheer suddenly stopped abruptly.

"Wait a minute," Gilligan said, somewhat hoarsely. "Why am I cheering? I still feel hot."

"What?" the Professor asked him, eyebrows raised high.

"Hey, yeah," the Skipper put in. "I'm still hot, too," he said.

The other castaways looked at each other in confusion, all shaking their heads. The rest of them were back to splendidly normal temperatures. So why not the Skipper and Gilligan?

"Well, maybe… Maybe it'll just take a minute to kick in," Mary Ann suggested. They all waited in silence, until finally the Skipper began shaking his head, and Gilligan mimicked the movement.

"I'm not getting any cooler, Mary Ann," Gilligan informed her with a frown. "In fact, I think I'm getting hotter."

"Hotter?" Mr. Howell echoed, looking slightly alarmed. "Well, on the bright side, we have the buckets of water ready if you two catch fire as well."

"I think we might," the Skipper chuckled half-heartedly. He was only half kidding.

"Do you really feel that hot?" the Professor asked them, reaching out a hand toward Gilligan's forehead, the closest of the two.

"Burning," the Skipper nodded, as Gilligan ducked out of the way of the Professor's hand with a pout. A look from the Skipper stilled him, and the Professor successfully felt the first mate's forehead. A look of concern crossed his face, and a look of understanding crossed Ginger's face simultaneously. She gasped, and they all turned to look at her.

"Burning!" she repeated. "That's it! It's the next plague already!" she cried, distressed. "_Eight shall be the numbered days in which Two Souls must burn!"_

"_Eight?!"_ the Skipper and Gilligan gasped together, exchanging looks of dread. The other castaways' eyes were wide, filled with horror and worry and sympathy. No one had anything to say to that, except for Mrs. Howell.

"Oh, how dreadful!" she cried, and the remark was eerily accurate.


End file.
